Second  Thoughts  of  an 
Idle  Fellow 


Second  Thoughts  of  an 
Idle  Fellow 


BY 

JEROME   K.   JEROME 

Author  of  "  Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


J5'S 


Copyright,  1898,  by  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company, 
for  the  United  States  of  America. 


HSUiU 


Contents 


Page 
On  the  Art  of  Making  up  One's  Mind         i 

On  the  Disadvantage  of  not  Getting 

WHAT  One  Wants 26 

On  THE  Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

to  THE  Things  we  Meant  to  Do  .  48 
On  the  Preparation  and  Employment 

OF  Love  Philtres 84 

On    the    Delights    and    Benefits    of 

Slavery no 

On    the    Care    and    Management    of 

Women 138 

On    the    AdiNDiNG   OF    Other   People's 

Business 162 

On    the    Time    Wasted    in    Looking 

Before  One  Leaps      •*..«.     198 


A  *>  />  '^.  .'^  ■'> 


VI  Contents 

Paob 

On  the  Nobility  of  Ourselves  .     ,     ,     226 

On  the  Motherliness  of  Man  .  ,  .  250 
On   the   Inadvisabilitv   of   Following 

Advice 278 

On   the    Playing  of    Marches  at  the 

Funerals  of  Marionettes    ....     309 


The  Second  Thoughts  of 
an  Idle  Fellow 


ON   THE   ART   OF   MAKING   UP 
ONE'S   MIND 

"  TVyOW,  which  would  you  advise,  dear  ? 

X  Al  You  see,  with  the  red  I  sha'n't  be 
able  to  wear  my  magenta  hat." 

"  Well,  then,  why  not  have  the  grey  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  think  the  grey  will  be  more 
useful.'' 

"  It 's  a  good  material," 

"  Yes,  and  it 's  a  pretty  grey.  You  know 
what  I  mean,  dear ;  not  a  common  grey. 
Of  course  grey  is  always  an  uninteresting 
colour." 

"  It 's  quiet." 

"  And  then  again,  what  I  feel  about  the 
red  is  that  it  is  so  warm-looking.  Red 
makes  you  feel  warm  even  when  you  're  not 
warm.     You  know  what  I  mean,  dear." 

"  Well,  then,  why  not  have  the  red  ?  It 
suits  you  —  red," 


"2"""''  •'Oif'the  Art  of 

"  No ;  do  you  really  think  so  ?  ** 
"  Well,  when  you  've  got  a  colour,  I  mean, 
of  course." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  drawback  to  red.     No, 
I  think,  on  the  whole,  the  grey  is  safer^ 
"  Then  you  will  take  the  grey,  madam." 
"  Yes,   I    think  I  'd  better ;    don't   you, 
dear?" 

"I  like  it  myself  very  much." 
"And  it  is  good  wearing  stuff.     I  shall 
have  it  trimmed  with  —     Oh  !  you  have  n't 
cut  it  off,  have  you  ? " 

"  I  was  just  about  to,  madam." 
"  Well,  don't  for  a  moment.     Just  let  me 
have  another  look  at  the  red.      You   see, 
dear,  it  has  just  occurred  to  me  —  that  chin- 
chilla would  look  so  well  on  the  red." 
"  So  it  would,  dear." 
"And,  you  see,  I  'vq got  the  chinchi'la." 
"  Then  have  the  red.     Why  not  ?  " 
"  Well,  there  is  the  hat  I  'm  thinking  of" 
"  You  have  n't  anything  else  you  could 
wear  with   that." 

"  Nothing  at  all,  and  it  would  go  so  beau- 
tifully with  the  grey.  —  Yes,  I  think  I  'li 
have  the  grey.  It  *s  always  a  safe  colour,  — 
grey." 


Making  up  One's  Mind        3 

"  Fourteen  yards  I  think  you  said, 
madam  ?  " 

"  Yes,  fourteen  yards  will  be  enough ; 
because  I  shall  mix  it  with  —  one  minute. 
You  see,  dear,  if  I  take  the  grey  I  shall  have 
nothing  to  wear  with  my  black  jacket." 

"  Won't  it  go  with  grey  ?  " 

"  Not  well  —  not  so  well  as  with  red." 

"  I  should  have  the  red,  then.  You  evi- 
dently fancy  it  yourself" 

"  No,  personally  I  prefer  the  grey.     But 
then  one  must  think  o^  everything^  and  — 
Good  gracious  !  that 's  surely  not  the  right 
time  ? " 

"  No,  madam,  it 's  ten  minutes  slow.  We 
always  keep  our  clocks  a  little  slow." 

"  And  we  were  to  have  been  at  Madame 
Jannavvay's  at  a  quarter  past  twelve.  How 
long  shopping  does  take  !  Why,  whatever 
time  did  we  start  ?  " 

"  About  eleven,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Half-past  ten.  I  remember  now  ;  be- 
cause, you  know,  we  said  we  'd  start  at 
half-past  nine.  We  've  been  two  hours 
already  !  " 

"And  we  don't  seem  to  have  done  much, 
do  we } " 


4  On  the  Art  of 

"  Done  literally  nothing,  and  I  meant  to 
have  done  so  much.  I  must  go  to  Madame 
Jannaway's.  Have  you  got  my  purse,  dear  ? 
Oh,  it's  all  right,  I  Ve  got  it." 

"  Well,  now  you  have  n't  decided  whether 
you  're  going  to  have  the  grey  or  the  red." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  do  want 
now.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  a  minute 
ago,  and  now  it 's  all  gone  again  —  oh,  yes, 
I  remember,  the  red.  Yes,  I  '11  have  the 
red.  No,  I  don't  mean  the  red ;  I  mean  the 
grey." 

"You  were  talking  about  the  red  last 
time,  if  you  remember,  dear." 

"  Oh,  so  I  was ;  you  're  quite  right.  That 's 
the  worst  of  shopping.  Do  you  know,  I  get 
quite  confused  sometimes." 

"  Then  you  will  decide  on  the  red, 
madam  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  sha'n't  do  any  better,  shall 
I,  dear?  What  do  you  think?  You  have  n't 
got  any  other  shades  of  red,  have  you  ? 
This  is  such  an  ugly  red." 

The  shopman  reminds  her  that  she  has 
seen  all  the  other  reds,  and  that  this  is  the 
particular  shade  she  selected  and  admired. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  she  replied,  with  the  a.'r 


Making  up  One's  Mind       5 

of  one  from  whom  all  earthly  cares  are  fall- 
ing, "  I  must  take  that,  then,  I  suppose.  I 
can't  be  worried  about  it  any  longer.  1  've 
wasted  half  the  morning  already." 

Outside  she  recollects  three  insuperable 
objections  to  the  red,  and  four  unanswerable 
arguments  why  she  should  have  selected  the 
grey.  She  wonders  would  they  change  it, 
if  she  went  back  and  asked  to  see  the  shop- 
walker ?  Her  friend,  who  wants  her  lunch, 
thinks  not. 

"  That  is  what  I  hate  about  shopping," 
she  says.  "  One  never  has  time  to  really 
thinkr 

She  says  she  sha'n't  go  to  that  shop  again. 

We  laugh  at  her,  but  are  we  so  very  much 
better?  Come,  my  superior  male  friend, 
have  you  never  stood  amid  your  wardrobe, 
undecided  whether,  in  her  eyes,  you  would 
appear  more  imposing  clad  in  the  rough 
tweed  suit  that  so  admirably  displays  your 
broad  shoulders  ;  or  in  the  orthodox  black 
frock,  that,  after  all,  is  perhaps  more  suitable 
to  the  figure  of  a  man  approaching  —  let 
us  say,  the  nine-and-twenties,  or,  better  still, 
why  not  riding  costume  ?  Did  we  not 
hear  her  say  how  well  Jones  looked  In  his 


6  On  the  Art  of 

top-boots  and  breeches,  and,  "  hang  it  all,** 
we  have  a  better  leg  than  Jones.  What  a 
pity  riding-breeches  are  made  so  baggy  now- 
adays. Why  is  it  that  male  fashions  tend 
more  and  more  to  hide  the  male  leg  ?  As 
women  have  become  less  and  less  ashamed 
of  theirs,  we  have  become  more  and  more 
reticent  of  ours.  Why  are  the  silken  hose, 
the  tight-fitting  pantaloons,  the  neat  knee- 
breeches  of  our  forefathers  impossible  to- 
day ?  Are  we  grown  more  modest —  or  has 
there  come  about  a  falling  off,  rendering 
concealment  advisable  ? 

I  can  never  understand,  myself,  why  wo- 
men love  us.  It  must  be  our  honest  worth, 
our  sterling  merit,  that  attracts  them,  —  cer- 
tainly not  our  appearance,  in  a  pair  of  tweed 
"  dittos,"  black  angora  coat  and  vest,  stand- 
up  collar,  and  chimney-pot  hat !  No,  it 
must  be  our  sheer  force  of  character  that 
compels  their  admiration. 

What  a  good  time  our  ancestors  must 
have  had  was  borne  in  upon  me  when,  on 
one  occasion,  I  appeared  in  character  at  a 
fancy-dress  ball.  What  I  represented  I  am 
unable  to  say,  and  I  don't  particularly  care. 
I  only  know  it  was  something  military.     I 


Making  up  One's  Mind        7 

also  remember  that  the  costume  was  two 
sizes  too  small  for  me  in  the  chest,  and 
thereabouts ;  and  three  sizes  too  large  for 
me  in  the  hat.  I  padded  the  hat,  and  dined 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  off  a  chop  and  half 
a  glass  of  soda-water.  I  have  gained  prizes 
as  a  boy  for  mathematics,  also  for  scripture 
history,  —  not  often,  but  I  have  done  it.  A 
literary  critic,  now  dead,  once  praised  a  book 
of  mine.  I  know  there  have  been  occasions 
when  my  conduct  has  won  the  approbation 
of  good  men ;  but  never  —  never  in  my 
whole  life  —  have  I  felt  more  proud,  more 
satisfied  with  myself,  than  on  that  evening 
when,  the  last  hook  fastened,  I  gazed  at  my 
full-length  Self  in  the  cheval  glass.  I  was  a 
dream.  I  say  it  who  should  not ;  but  I  am 
not  the  only  one  who  said  it.  I  was  a  glit- 
tering dream.  The  groundwork  was  red, 
trimmed  with  gold  braid  wherever  there  was^ 
room  for  gold  braid  ;  and  where  there  was 
no  more  possible  room  for  gold  braid  there 
hung  gold  cords  and  tassels  and  straps. 
Gold  buttons  and  buckles  fastened  me,  gold 
embroidered  belts  and  sashes  caressed  me, 
white  horse-hair  plumes  waved  o'er  me.  I 
am  not  sure  that  everything  was  in  its  proper 


8  On  the  Art  of 

place,  but  I  managed  to  get  everything  on 
somehow,  and  I  looked  well.  It  suited  me. 
My  success  was  a  revelation  to  me  of  female 
human  nature.  Girls  who  had  hitherto  been 
cold  and  distant  gathered  round  me,  timidly 
solicitous  of  notice.  Girls  on  whom  I  smiled 
lost  their  heads  and  gave  themselves  airs. 
Girls  who  were  not  introduced  to  me  sulked 
and  were  rude  to  girls  that  had  been.  For 
one  poor  child,  with  whom  I  sat  out  two 
dances  (at  least  she  sat,  while  I  stood  grace- 
fully beside  her  —  I  had  been  advised,  by 
the  costumier,  not  to  sit),  I  was  sorry.  He 
was  a  worthy  young  fellow,  the  son  of  a  cot- 
ton broker,  and  he  would  have  made  her  a 
good  husband,  I  feel  sure.  But  he  was  fool- 
ish to  come  as  a  beer  bottle. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  as  well  those  old 
fashions  have  gone  out.  A  week  in  that 
suit  might  have  impaired  my  natural 
modesty. 

One  wonders  that  fancy-dress  balls  are  not 
more  popular  in  this  grey  age  of  ours.  The 
childish  instinct  to  "  dress  up,"  to  "  make 
believe,"  is  with  us  all.  We  grow  so  tired 
of  being  always  ourselves.  A  tea-table  dis- 
cussion, at  which    I   once  assisted,  fell  into 


Making  up  One's  Mind       9 

this:  Would  any  one  of  us,  when  it  came 
to  the  point,  change  with  anybody  else,  the 
poor  man  with  the  millionaire,  the  governess 
with  the  princess,  —  change  not  only  outward 
circumstances  and  surroundings,  but  health 
and  temperament,  heart,  brain,  and  soul,  so 
that  not  one  mental  or  physical  particle  of 
one's  original  self  one  would  retain,  save  only 
memory.  The  general  opinion  was  that  we 
would  not,  but  one  lady  maintained  the 
affirmative. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  would  n't  really,  dear," 
argued  a  friend ;  "  you  think  you  would." 

"  Yes,  I  would,"  persisted  the  first  lady ; 
"  I  am  tired  of  myself.  I  'd  even  be  you, 
for  a  change." 

In  my  youth  the  question  chiefly  impor- 
tant to  me  was.  What  sort  of  man  should 
I  decide  to  be  ?  At  nineteen  one  asks  one- 
self this  question ;  at  thirty-nine  we  say,  "  I 
wish  Fate  had  n't  made  me  this  sort  of  man.** 

In  those  days  I  was  a  reader  of  much  well- 
meant  advice  to  young  men,  and  I  gathered 
that,  whether  I  should  become  a  Sir  Lance- 
lot, a  Herr  Teufelsdrockh,  or  an  lago  was  a 
matter  for  my  own  individual  choice. 
Whether  I  should  go  through  life  gaily  or 


lO  On  the  Art  of 

gravely  was  a  question  the  pros  and  cons  of 
which  I  carefully  considered.  For  patterns 
I  turned  to  books.  Byron  was  then  still 
popular,  and  many  of  us  made  up  our  minds 
to  be  gloomy,  saturnine  young  men,  weary 
with  the  world  and  prone  to  soliloquy.  I 
determined  to  join  them. 

For  a  month  I  rarely  smiled,  or,  when  I 
did,  it  was  with  a  weary,  bitter  smile,  con- 
cealing a  broken  heart,  —  at  least  that  was 
the  intention.  Shallow-minded  observers 
misunderstood. 

"  I  know  exactly  how  it  feels,"  they  would 
say,  looking  at  me  sympathetically,  '*'  1  often 
have  it  myself  It 's  the  sudden  change  in 
the  weather,  I  think ;  "  and  they  would 
press  neat  brandy  upon  me,  and  suggest 
ginger. 

Again,  it  is  distressing  to  the  young  man, 
busy  burying  his  secret  sorrow  under  a 
mound  of  silence,  to  be  slapped  on  the  back 
by  commonplace  people  and  asked,  "  Well, 
how  's  '  the  hump  '  this  morning  ?  "  and 
to  hear  his  mood  of  dignified  melancholy 
referred  to,  by  those  who  should  know 
better,  as  "  the  sulks." 

There  are  practical  difficulties  also  in  the 


Making  up  One's  Mind      II 

way  of  him  who  would  play  the  Byronic 
young  gentleman.  He  must  be  super- 
natural! y  wicked  —  or  rather,  must  have  been  ; 
only,  alas  !  in  the  unliterary  grammar  of  life, 
where  the  future  tense  stands  first,  and  the 
past  is  formed,  not  from  the  indefinite,  but 
from  the  present  indicative,  "  to  have  been  " 
is  "  to  be  ; "  and  to  be  wicked  on  a  small  in- 
come is  impossible.  The  ruin  of  even  the 
simplest  of  maidens  costs  money.  In  the 
Courts  of  Love  one  cannot  sue  in  forma 
pauperis  ;  nor  would  it  be  the  Byronic  method. 

"  To  drown  remembrance  in  the  cup  " 
sounds  well,  but  then  the  "  cup  "  to  be  fit- 
ting should  be  of  some  expensive  brand. 
To  drink  deep  of  old  Tokay  or  Asti  is  poet- 
ical ;  but  when  one's  purse  necessitates  that  the 
draught,  if  it  is  to  be  deep  enough  to  drown 
anything,  should  be  of  thin  beer  at  five-and- 
nine  the  four  and  a  half  gallon  cask,  or  some- 
thing similar  in  price,  sin  is  robbed  of  its 
flavour. 

Possibly  also  —  let  me  think  it  —  the  con- 
viction may  have  been  within  me  that  Vice, 
even  at  its  daintiest,  is  but  an  ugly,  sordid 
thing,  repulsive  in  the  sunlight,  that  though 
—  as   rags  and  dirt  to  art — it  may  afford 


12  On  the  Art  of 

picturesque  material  to  Literature,  it  is  an 
evil-smelling  garment  to  the  wearer,  one 
that  a  good  man,  by  reason  of  poverty  of 
will,  may  come  down  to,  but  one  to  be 
avoided  with  all  one's  effort,  discarded  with 
returning  mental  prosperity. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  I  grew  weary  of  training 
for  a  saturnine  young  man ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  my  doubt  I  chanced  upon  a  book 
the  hero  of  which  was  a  debonair  young 
buck,  own  cousin  to  Tom  and  Jerry.  He 
attended  fights,  both  of  cocks  and  men, 
flirted  with  actresses,  wrenched  off  door- 
knockers, extinguished  street  lamps,  played 
many  a  merry  jest  upon  many  an  unappre- 
ciative  night  watchman.  For  all  the  which  he 
was  much  beloved  by  the  women  of  the  book. 
Why  should  not  I  flirt  with  actresses,  put  out 
street  lamps,  play  pranks  on  policemen,  and 
be  beloved  ?  London  life  was  changed  since 
the  days  of  my  hero,  but  much  remained, 
and  the  heart  of  woman  is  eternal.  If  no 
longer  prize-fighting  was  to  be  had,  at  least 
there  were  boxing  competitions,  so-called,  in 
dingy  back  parlours  out  Whitechapel  way. 
Though  cock-fighting  was  a  lost  sport,  were 
there  not  damp  cellars  near  the  river  where 


Making  up  One's  Mind     13 

for  twopence  a  gentleman  might  back  mon- 
grel terriers  to  kill  rats  against  time,  and  feel 
himself  Indeed  a  sportsman  ?  True,  the  atmos- 
phere of  reckless  gaiety,  always  surround- 
ing my  hero,  I  missed  myself  from  these 
scenes,  finding  in  its  place  an  atmosphere 
more  suggestive  of  gin,  stale  tobacco,  and 
nervous  apprehension  of  the  police;  but  the 
essentials  must  have  been  -the  same,  and  the 
next  morning  I  could  exclaim,  in  the  very 
words  of  my  prototype,  "  Odds  crickets, 
but  I  feel  as  though  the  devil  himself  were 
in  my  head.     Peste  take  me  for  a  fool !  " 

But  in  this  direction  likewise  my  fatal 
lack  of  means  opposed  me.  (It  affords 
much  food  to  the  philosophic  mind,  this 
influence  of  income  upon  character.)  Even 
fifth-rate  "  boxing  competitions,"  organised 
by  "  friendly  leads,"  and  ratting  contests  in 
Rotherhithe  slums,  become  expensive  when 
you  happen  to  be  the  only  gentleman  present 
possessed  of  a  collar,  and  are  expected  to  do 
the  honours  of  your  class  in  dogs-nose. 
True,  climbing  lamp-posts  and  putting  out 
the  gas  is  fairly  cheap,  providing  always  you 
are  not  caught  in  the  act,  but  as  a  recreation 
it  lacks  variety.     Nor  is  the  modern  Lou- 


14  On  the  Art  of 

don  lamp-post  adapted  to  sport.  Anything 
more  difficult  to  grip  —  anything  with  less 
"give"  in  it — I  have  rarely  clasped.  The 
disgraceful  amount  of  dirt  allowed  to  accu- 
mulate upon  it  is  another  drawback  from 
the  climber's  point  of  view.  By  the  time 
you  have  swarmed  up  your  third  post  a 
positive  distaste  for  "gaiety"  steals  over 
you.  Your  desire  is  towards  arnica  and 
a  bath. 

Nor  in  jokes  at  the  expense  of  policemen 
is  the  fun  entirely  on  your  side.  Maybe  I 
did  not  proceed  with  judgment.  It  occurs 
to  me  now,  looking  back,  that  the  neigh- 
bourhoods of  Covent  Garden  and  Great 
Marlborough  Street  were  ill  chosen  for 
sport  of  this  nature.  To  bonnet  a  fat 
policeman  is  excellent  fooling.  While  he 
is  struggling  with  his  helmet  you  can  ask 
him  comic  questions,  and  by  the  time  he 
has  got  his  head  free  you  are  out  of  sight. 
But  the  game  should  be  played  in  a  district 
where  there  is  not  an  average  of  three  con- 
stables to  every  dozen  square  yards.  When 
two  other  policemen,  who  have  had  their 
eye  on  you  for  the  past  ten  minutes,  are 
watching  the  proceedings   from  just   round 


Making  up  One's  Mind      1 5 

the  next  corner,  you  have  little  or  no  lei- 
sure for  due  enjoyment  of  the  situation.  By 
the  time  you  have  run  the  whole  length  of 
Great  Tichfield  Street  and  twice  round  Ox- 
ford Market,  you  are  of  opinion  that  a  joke 
should  never  be  prolonged  beyond  the  point 
at  which  there  is  danger  of  its  becoming 
wearisome,  and  that  the  time  has  now  ar- 
rived for  home  and  friends.  ■  The  "  Law," 
on  the  other  hand,  now  raised  by  reinforce- 
ments to  a  strength  of  six  or  seven  men,  is 
just  beginning  to  enjoy  the  chase.  You 
picture  to  yourself,  while  doing  Hanover 
Square,  the  scene  in  Court  the  next  morn- 
ing. You  will  be  accused  of  being  drunk 
and  disorderly.  It  will  be  idle  for  you  to 
explain  to  the  magistrate  (or  to  your  rela- 
tions afterwards)  that  you  were  only  trying 
to  live  up  to  a  man  who  did  this  sort  of 
thing  in  a  book  and  was  admired  for  it. 
You  will  be  fined  the  usual  forty  shillings ; 
and  on  the  next  occasion  of  your  calling  at 
the  Mayfields'  the  girls  will  be  out,  and 
Mrs.  Mayfield,  an  excellent  lady,  who  has 
always  taken  a  motherly  interest  in  you,  will 
talk  seriously  to  you  and  urge  you  to  sign 
the  pledge. 


1 6  On  the  Art  of 

Thanks  to  your  youth  and  constitution 
you  shake  off  the  pursuit  at  Notting  Hill ; 
and,  to  avoid  any  chance  of  unpleasant  con- 
tretemps on  the  return  journey,  walk  home 
to  Bloomsbury  by  way  of  Camden  Town 
and  Islington. 

I  abandoned  sportive  tendencies  as  the 
result  of  a  vow  made  by  myself  to  Provi- 
dence, during  the  early  hours  of  a  certain 
Sunday  morning,  while  clinging  to  the 
waterspout  of  an  unpretentious  house  situ- 
ate in  a  side  street  off  Soho.  I  put  it  to 
Providence  as  man  to  man.  "  Let  me  only 
get  out  of  this,"  I  think  were  the  muttered 
words  I  used,  "  and  no  more  ^  sport '  foi 
me."  Providence  closed  on  the  offer,  and 
did  let  me  get  out  of  it.  True,  it  was  a 
complicated  "  get  out,"  involving  a  broken 
skylight  and  three  gas  globes,  two  hours  in 
a  coal  cellar,  and  a  sovereign  to  a  potman  for 
the  loan  of  an  ulster ;  and  when  at  last,  se- 
cure in  my  chamber,  I  took  stock  of  myself, 
—  what  was  left  of  me,  —  I  could  not  but 
reflect  that  Providence  might  have  done  the 
job  neater.  Yet  I  experienced  no  desire  to 
escape  the  terms  of  the  covenant ;  my  in- 
clining for  the  future  was  towards  a  life  o/ 
simplicity. 


Making  up  One's  Mind     17 

Accordingly,  I  cast  about  for  a  new  char- 
acter, and  found  one  to  suit  me.  The  Ger- 
man Professor  was  becoming  popular  as  a 
hero  about  this  period.  He  wore  his  hair 
long  and  was  otherwise  untidy,  but  he  had 
"  a  heart  of  steel,"  occasionally  of  gold. 
The  majority  of  folks  in  the  book,  judging 
him  from  his  exterior,  together  with  his 
conversation,  —  in  broken  English,  dealing 
chiefly  with  his  dead  mother  and  his  little 
sister  Lisa,  —  dubbed  him  uninteresting, 
but  then  they  did  not  know  about  the  heart. 
His  chief  possession  was  a  lame  dog  which 
he  had  rescued  from  a  brutal  mob  ;  and 
when  he  was  not  talking  broken  English 
he  was  nursing  this  dog. 

But  his  speciality  was  stopping  runaway 
horses,  thereby  saving  the  heroine's  life. 
This,  combined  with  the  broken  English 
and  the  dog,  rendered  him  irresistible. 

He  seemed  a  peaceful,  amiable  sort  of 
creature,  and  I  decided  to  try  him.  I  could 
not  of  course  be  a  German  professor,  but  I 
could  and  did  wear  my  hair  long  in  spite 
of  much  public  advice  to  the  contrary,  voiced 
chiefly  by  small  boys.  I  endeavoured  to 
obtain  possession  of  a  lame  dog,  but  failed- 


1 8  On  the  Art  of 

A  one-eyed  dealer  in  Seven  Dials,  to  whom, 
as  a  last  resource,  I  applied,  offered  to  lame 
one  for  me  for  an  extra  live  shillings,  but 
this  suggestion  I  declined.  I  came  across 
an  uncanny-looking  mongrel  late  one  night. 
He  was  not  lame,  but  he  seemed  pretty 
sick ;  and,  feeling  I  was  not  robbing  any- 
body of  anything  very  valuable,  I  lured  him 
home  and  nursed  him.  I  fancy  I  must  have 
over-nursed  him.  He  got  so  healthy  in  the 
end,  there  was  no  doing  anything  with  him. 
He  was  an  ill-conditioned  cur,  and  he  was 
too  old  to  be  taught.  He  became  the  curse 
of  the  neighbourhood.  His  idea  of  sport 
was  killing  chickens  and  sneaking  rabbits 
from  outside  poulterers'  shops.  For  recre- 
ation he  killed  cats  and  frightened  small 
children  by  yelping  round  their  legs.  There 
were  times  when  I  could  have  lamed  him 
myself,  if  only  I  could  have  got  hold  of 
him.  I  made  nothing  by  running  that  dog, 
—  nothing  whatever.  People,  instead  of 
admiring  me  for  nursing  him  back  to  life, 
called  me  a  fool,  and  said  that  if  I  did  n't 
drown  the  brute,  they  would.  He  spoilt 
my  character  utterly  —  I  mean  my  charac- 
ter at  this  period.     It  is  difficult  to  pose  as 


Making  up  One's  Mind      I9 

a  young  man  with  a  heart  of  gold,  when  dis- 
covered in  the  middle  of  the  road  throwing 
stones  at  your  own  dog ;  and  stones  were 
the  only  things  that  would  reach  and  influ- 
ence him. 

I  was  also  hampered  by  a  scarcity  in  run- 
away horses.  The  horse  of  our  suburb  was 
not  that  type  of  horse.  Once,  and  only 
once  did  an  opportunity  offer  itself  for 
practice.  It  was  a  good  opportunity,  inas- 
much as  he  was  not  running  away  very 
greatly.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  he  knew  him- 
self that  he  was  running  away.  It  tran- 
spired afterwards  that  it  was  a  habit  of  his, 
after  waiting  for  his  driver  outside  the  Rose 
and  Crown  for  what  he  considered  to  be  a 
reasonable  period,  to  trot  home  on  his  own 
account.  He  passed  me  going  about  seven 
miles  an  hour,  with  the  reins  dragging  con- 
veniently beside  him.  He  was  the  very 
thing  for  a  beginner,  and  I  prepared  myself. 
At  the  critical  moment,  however,  a  couple 
of  officious  policemen  pushed  me  aside  and 
did  it  themselves. 

There  was  nothing  for  me  to  regret,  as 
the  matter  turned  out.  I  should  only  have 
rescued  a  bald-headed  commercial  traveller, 


;20  On  the  Art  of 

very  drunk,  who  swore  horribly  and  pelted 
the  crowd  with  empty  collar-boxes. 

From  the  window  of  a  very  high  flat  I 
once  watched  three  men  resolved  to  stop  a 
runaway  horse.  Each  man  marched  delib- 
erately into  the  middle  of  the  road  and  took 
up  his  stand.  My  window  was  too  far  away 
for  me  to  see  their  faces,  but  their  attitude 
suggested  heroism  unto  death.  The  first 
man,  as  the  horse  came  charging  towards 
him,  faced  it  with  his  arms  spread  out.  He 
never  flinched  until  the  horse  was  within 
about  twenty  yards  of  him.  Then,  as  the 
animal  was  evidently  determined  to  continue 
its  wild  career,  there  was  nothing  left  for  him 
to  do  but  to  retire  again  to  the  kerb,  where 
he  stood  looking  after  it  with  evident  sorrow, 
as  though  saying  to  himself,  "  Oh,  well,  if 
you  are  going  to  be  headstrong  I  have  done 
with  you." 

The  second  man,  on, the  catastrophe  being 
thus  left  clear  for  him,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  walked  up  a  bye-street  and  disap- 
peared. The  third  man  stood  his  ground, 
and  as  the  horse  passed  him  yelled  at  it.  I 
could  not  hear  what  he  said.  I  have  not 
the  slightest  doubt  it   was  excellent  advice, 


Making  up  One's  Mind     21 

but  the  animal  was  apparently  too  excited 
even  to  listen.  The  first  and  the  third  man 
met  afterwards  and  discussed  the  matter 
sympathetically.  I  judged  they  were  re- 
gretting the  pig-headedness  of  runaway 
horses  in  general,  and  hoping  that  nobody 
had  been  hurt. 

I  forget  the  other  characters  I  assumed 
about  this  period.  One  I  know  that  got 
me  into  a  good  deal  of  trouble  was  that  of  a 
downright,  honest,  hearty,  outspoken  young 
man  who  always  said  what  he  meant. 

I  never  knew  but  one  man  who  made  a 
real  success  of  speaking  his  mind.  I  have 
heard  him  slap  the  table  with  his  open  hand 
and  exclaim,  — 

"  You  want  me  to  flatter  you,  to  stuff 
you  up  with  a  pack  of  lies.  That 's  not  me, 
that 's  not  Jim  Compton.  But  if  you  care 
for  my  honest  opinion,  all  I  can  say  is,  that 
child  is  the  most  marvellous  performer  on 
the  piano  I  Ve  ever  heard.  I  don't  say  she 
is  a  genius,  but  I  have  heard  Liszt  and 
Metzler  and  all  the  crack  players,  and  I 
prefer  her.  That 's  my  opinion.  I  speak 
my  mind,  and  I  can't  help  it  if  you  're 
ofFended" 


2  2  On  the  Art  of 

"  How  refreshing,"  the  parents  would  say, 
"  to  come  across  a  man  who  is  not  afraid  to 
say  what  he  really  thinks  !  Why  are  we  not 
all  outspoken  ? " 

The  last  character  I  attempted  I  thought 
would  be  easy  to  assume.  It  was  that  of  a 
much  admired  and  beloved  young  man,  whose 
great  charm  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was  always 
just  —  himself.  Other  people  posed  and 
acted.  He  never  made  any  effort  to  be  any- 
thing but  his  own  natural,  simple  self 

I  thought  I  also  would  be  my  own  natural, 
simple  self.  But  then  the  question  arose, 
What  was  my  own  natural,  simple  self.? 

That  was  the  preliminary  problem  I  had 
to  solve ;  I  have  not  solved  it  to  this  day. 
What  am  I  ?  I  am  a  great  gentleman, 
walking  through  the  world  with  dauntless 
heart  and  head  erect,  scornful  of  all  mean- 
ness, impatient  of  all  littleness.  I  am  a 
mean-thinking,  little-daring  man,  —  the  type 
of  man  that  I  of  the  dauntless  heart  and 
the  erect  head  despise  greatly,  crawling  to 
a  poor  end  by  devious  ways,  cringing  to  the 
strong,  timid  of  all  pain.  I  —  but,  dear 
reader,  I  will  not  pain  your  sensitive  ears 
with  details  I  could  give  you,  showing  how 


Making  up  One's  Mind     23 

contemptible  a  creature  this  wretched  I 
happens  to  be.  Nor  would  you  understand 
me.  You  would  only  be  astonished,  dis- 
covering that  such  disreputable  specimens 
of  humanity  contrive  to  exist  in  this  age. 
It  is  best,  my  dear  sir  or  madam,  you  should 
remain  ignorant  of  these  evil  persons.  Let 
me  not  trouble  you  with  knowledge. 

I  am  a  philosopher,  greeting  alike  the 
thunder  and  the  sunshine  with  frolic  wel- 
come. Only  now  and  then,  when  all  things 
do  not  fall  exactly  as  I  wish  them,  when 
foolish,  wicked  people  will  persist  in  doing 
foolish,  wicked  acts,  affecting  my  comfort  and 
happiness,  I  rage  and  fret  a  goodish  deal. 

As  Heine  said  of  himself,  I  am  knight, 
too,  of  the  Holy  Grail,  valiant  for  the 
Truth,  reverent  of  all  women,  honouring  all 
men,  eager  to  yield  life  to  the  service  of  my 
great  Captain. 

And  next  moment  I  find  myself  in  the 
enemy's  lines,  fighting  under  the  black 
banner.  (It  must  be  confusing  to  these 
opposing  generals,  all  their  soldiers  being 
deserters  from  both  armies.)  What  are 
women  but  men's  playthings  ?  Shall  there 
be  no  more  cakes  and  ale  for  me,  because 


24  On  the  Art  of 

thou  art  virtuous  ?  What  are  men  but 
hungry  dogs,  contending  each  against  each 
for  a  limited  supply  of  bones  ?  Do  others 
lest  thou  be  done.  What  is  the  Truth  but 
an  unexploded  lie  ? 

I  am  a  lover  of  all  living  things.  You, 
my  poor  sister,  struggling  with  your  heavy 
burden  on  your  lonely  way,  I  would  kiss 
the  tears  from  your  worn  cheeks,  lighten 
with  my  love  the  darkness  around  your  feet. 
You,  my  patient  brother,  breathing  hard  as 
round  and  round  you  tramp  the  trodden 
path,  like  some  poor  half-bhnd  gin-horse, 
stripes  your  only  encouragement,  scanty 
store  of  dry  chaif  in  your  manger,  I  would 
jog  beside  you,  taking  the  strain  a  little  from 
your  aching  shoulders  ;  and  we  would  walk 
nodding  our  heads  side  by  side,  and  you, 
remembering,  should  tell  me  of  the  fields 
where  long  ago  you  played,  of  the  gallant 
races  that  you  ran  and  won.  And  you,  little 
pinched  brats,  with  wondering  eyes,  looking 
from  dirt-incrusted  faces,  I  would  take  you 
in  my  arms  and  tell  you  fairy  stories.  Into 
the  sweet  land  of  make-believe  we  would 
wander,  leaving  the  sad  old  world  behind  us 
for  a  time,  and  you  should  be  Princes  and 
Princesses  and  know  Love. 


Making  up  One's  Mind      25 

But,  again,  a  selfish,  greedy  man  comes 
often  and  sits  in  my  clothes,  —  a  man  who 
frets  away  his  life,  planning  how  to  get  more 
money,  more  food,  more  clothes,  more 
pleasures  for  himself;  a  man  so  busy  think- 
ing of  the  many  things  he  needs  he  has  no 
time  to  dwell  upon  the  needs  of  others. 
He  deems  himself  the  centre  of  the  uni- 
verse. You  would  imagine,  hearing  him 
grumbling,  that  the  world  had  been  created 
and  got  ready  against  the  time  when  he 
should  come  to  take  his  pleasure  in  it.  He 
would  push  and  trample,  heedless,  reaching 
towards  these  many  desires  of  his ;  and 
when,  grabbing,  he  misses,  he  curses  Heaven 
for  its  injustice,  and  men  and  women  for 
getting  in  his  way.  He  is  not  a  nice  man 
in  any  way.  I  wish,  as  I  say,  he  would 
not  come  so  often  and  sit  in  my  clothes. 
He  persists  that  he  is  I,  and  that  I  am  only 
a  sentimental  fool,  spoiling  his  chances. 
Sometimes,  for  a  while,  1  get  rid  of  him, 
but  he  always  comes  back ;  and  then  he 
gets  rid  of  me  and  I  become  him.  It  is 
very  confusing.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  I 
really  am   I. 


ON   THE   DISADVANTAGE   OF 

NOT   GETTING   WHAT    ONE 

WANTS 


LONG,  long  ago,  when  you  and  I,  dear 
Reader,  were  young,  when  the  fairies 
dwelt  in  the  hearts  of  the  roses,  when  the 
moonbeams  bent  each  night  beneath  the 
weight  of  angels'  feet,  there  lived  a  good, 
wise  man.  Or  rather,  I  should  say,  there 
had  lived,  for  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak 
the  poor  old  gentleman  lay  dying.  Waiting 
each  moment  the  dread  summons,  he  fell 
a-musing  on  the  life  that  stretched  far  back 
behind  him.  How  full  it  seemed  to  him  at 
that  moment  of  follies  and  mistakes,  bring- 
ing bitter  tears  not  to  himself  alone,  but  to 
others  also !  How  much  brighter  a  road 
might  it  have  been,  had  he  been  wiser,  had 
he  known  ! 

"Ah,  me  !  "  said  the  good  old  gentleman, 
"  if  only  I  could  live  my  life  again  in  the 
light  of  experience !  " 


Getting  what  One  Wants     27 

Now  as  he  spoke  these  words  he  felt  the 
drawing  near  to  him  of  a  Presence,  and 
thinking  it  was  the  One  whom  he  expected, 
raising  himself  a  little  from  his  bed,  he  feebly 
cried,  "  I  am  ready." 

But  a  hand  forced  him  gently  back,  a 
voice  saying,  "  Not  yet ;  1  bring  life,  not 
death.  Your  wish  shall  be  granted..  You 
shall  live  your  life  again,  and  the  knowledge 
of  the  past  shall  be  with  you  to  guide  you. 
See  you  use  it.     I  will  come  again." 

Then  a  sleep  fell  upon  the  good  man,  and 
when  he  awoke  he  was  again  a  little  child, 
lying  in  his  mother's  arms ;  but  locked 
within  his  brain  was  the  knowledge  of  the 
life  that  he  had  lived  already. 

So  once  more  he  lived  and  loved  and 
laboured.  So  a  second  time  he  lay  an  old, 
worn  man  with  Hfe  behind  him.  And  the 
angel  stood  again  beside  his  bed ;  and  the 
voice  said, — 

"  Well,  are  you  content  now  ?  " 

"  I  am  well  content,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man.    "  Let  Death  come." 

"And  have  you  understood?"  asked  the 
angel. 

"  I  think  so,"  was  the  answer ;  "  that  ex- 


28    C)n  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

perience  Is  but  as  of  the  memory  of  the 
pathways  he  has  trod  to  a  traveller  journey- 
ing ever  onward  into  an  unknown  land.  I 
have  been  wise  only  to  reap  the  reward  of 
folly.  Knowledge  has  ofttimes  kept  me 
from  my  good.  I  have  avoided  my  old 
mistakes  only  to  fall  into  others  that  I  knew 
not  of.  I  have  reached  the  old  errors  by 
new  roads.  Where  I  have  escaped  sorrow  I 
have  lost  joy.  Where  I  have  grasped  hap- 
piness I  have  plucked  pain  also.  Now  let 
me  go  with  Death  that  I  may  learn." 

Which  was  so  like  the  angel  of  that 
period,  the  giving  of  a  gift,  bringing  to  a 
man  only  more  trouble.  Maybe  I  am  over- 
rating my  coolness  of  judgment  under 
somewhat  startling  circumstances,  but  I  am 
mclined  to  think  that,  had  I  lived  in  those 
lays,  and  had  a  fairy  or  an  angel  come  to 
me,  wanting  to  give  me  something,  —  my 
soul's  desire,  or  the  sum  of  my  ambition,  or 
any  trifle  of  that  kind,  —  I  should  have  been 
short  with  him.. 

"  You  pack  up  that  precious  bag  of  tricks 
of  yours,"  I  should  have  said  to  him  (it 
would  have  been  rude,  but  that  is  how  I 
should  have  felt),  "  and  get  outside  with  It, 


Getting  what  One  Wants      29 

I  'm  not  taking  anything  in  your  line  to-day. 
I  don't  require  any  supernatural  aid  to  get 
me  into  trouble.  All  the  worry  I  want  I  can 
get  down  here,  so  it 's  no  good  your  calling. 
You  take  that  Httle  joke  of  yours —  I  don't 
know  what  it  is,  but  I  know  enough  not  to 
want  to  know  —  and  run  it  oft'  on  some 
other  idiot.  I  'm  not  priggish.  I  have  no 
objection  to  an  innocent  game  of  *  catch- 
questions  '  In  the  ordinary  way,  and  when  I 
get  a  turn  myself.  But  If  I  've  got  to 
pay  every  time,  and  the  stakes  are  to  be  my 
earthly  happiness  plus  my  future  existence 
—  why,  I  don't  play.  There  was  the  case 
of  Midas  ;  a  nice,  shabby  trick  you  fellows 
played  off"  upon  him  !  making  pretence  you 
did  not  understand  him,  twisting  the  poor 
old  fellow's  words  round  just  for  all  the 
world  as  though  you  were  a  pack  of  Old 
Bailey  lawyers  trying  to  trip  up  a  witness ; 
I  'm  ashamed  of  the  lot  of  you,  and  I  tell 
you  so,  —  coming  down  here,  fooling  poor 
unsuspecting  mortals  with  your  nonsense,  as 
though  we  had  not  enough  to  harry  us  as  it 
was.  Then  there  was  that  other  case  of  the 
poor  old  peasant  couple  to  whom  you  prom- 
ised three  wishes,  the  whole  thing  ending  in 


30     On  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

a  black  pudding.  And  they  never  got  even 
that.  You  thought  that  funny,  I  suppose. 
That  was  your  fairy  humour !  A  pity,  I 
say,  you  have  not,  all  of  you,  something 
better  to  do  with  your  time.  As  I  said  be- 
fore, you  take  that  celestial  ^  Joe  Miller '  of 
yours  and  work  it  off  on  somebody  else.  I 
have  read  my  fairy  lore,  and  I  have  read  my 
mythology,  and  I  don't  want  any  of  your 
blessings.  And  what 's  more,  I  'm  not  going 
to  have  them.  When  I  want  blessings  I  will 
put  up  with  the  usual  sort  we  are  accustomed 
to  down  here.  You  know  the  ones  I  mean, 
the  disguised  brand,  —  the  blessings  that  no 
human  being  would  think  were  blessings,  if 
he  were  not  told;  the  blessings  that  don't 
look  like  blessings,  that  don't  feel  like  bless- 
ings ;  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  are  not  bless- 
ings, practically  speaking ;  the  blessings 
that  other  people  think  are  blessings  for  us 
and  that  we  don't.  They  've  got  their  draw- 
backs, but  they  are  better  than  yours,  at  any 
rate,  and  they  are  sooner  over.  I  don't  want 
your  blessings  at  any  price.  If  you  leave 
one  here,  I  shall  simply  throw  it  out  after 
you." 

I  feel   confident  I  should  have  answered 


Getting  what  One  Wants     31 

like  that,  and  I  feel  it  would  have  done 
good.  Somebody  ought  to  have  spoken 
plainly,  because  with  fairies  and  angels  of 
that  sort  fooling  about,  no  one  was  ever 
safe  for  a  moment.  Children  could  hardly 
have  been  allowed  outside  the  door.  One 
never  could  have  told  what  silly  trick  some 
would-be  funny  fairy  might  be  waiting  to 
play  off  on  them.  The  poor  child  would 
not  know,  and  would  think  it  was  getting 
something  worth  having.  The  wonder  to 
me  is  that  some  of  those  angels  did  n't  get 
tarred  and  feathered. 

I  am  doubtful  whether  even  Cinderella's 
luck  was  quite  as  satisfying  as  we  are  led  to 
believe.  After  the  carpetless  kitchen  and 
the  black  beetles,  how  beautiful  the  palace 
must  have  seemed  —  for  the  first  year,  per- 
haps for  the  first  two.  And  the  Prince  ! 
how  loving,  how  gallant,  how  tender  —  for 
the  first  year,  perhaps  for  the  first  two. 
And  after?  You  see  he  was  a  Prince, 
brought  up  in  a  Court,  the  atmosphere  of 
which  is  not  conducive  to  the  development 
of  the  domestic  virtues;  and  she  —  was  Cin- 
derella. And  then  the  marriage  altogether 
was  rather  a  hurried  affair.     Oh,  yes,  she  is 


32     On  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

a  good,  loving  little  woman  ;  but  perhaps 
our  Royal  Highness-ship  did  act  too  much 
on  the  impulse  of  the  moment.  It  was  her 
dear,  dainty  feet  that  danced  their  way  into 
our  heart.  How  they  flashed  and  twinkled, 
cased  in  those  fairy  slippers  !  How  like  a 
lily  among  tulips  she  moved  that  night 
amid  the  over-gorgeous  Court  dames  !  She 
was  so  sweet,  so  fresh,  so  different  to  all 
the  others  whom  we  knew  so  well.  How 
happy  she  looked  as  she  put  her  trembling 
little  hand  in  ours !  What  possibilities 
might  lie  behind  those  drooping  lashes ! 
And  we  were  in  amorous  mood  that  night, 
the  music  in  our  feet,  the  flash  and  glitter 
in  our  eyes.  And  then,  to  pique  us  fur- 
ther, she  disappeared  as  suddenly  and 
strangely  as  she  had  come.  Who  was  she  ^ 
Whence  came  she?  What  was  the  mystery 
surrounding  her  ?  Was  she  only  a  deli- 
cious dream,  a  haunting  phantasy  that  we 
should  never  look  upon  again,  never  clasp 
again  within  our  longing  arms  ?  Was  our 
heart  to  be  for  ever  hungry,  haunted  by  the 
memory  of —  No,  by  heavens,  she  is  real, 
and  a  woman.  Here  is  her  dear  slipper, 
made  surely  to  be  kissed;  of  a  size  too  that 


Getting  what  One  Wants     33 

a  man  may  well  wear  within  the  breast 
of  his  doublet.  Had  any  woman  —  nay, 
fairy,  angel,  such  dear  feet?  Search  the 
whole  kingdom  through,  but  find  her,  find 
her.  The  gods  have  heard  our  prayers 
and  given  us  this  clue.  "  Suppose  she  be 
not  all  she  seemed !  Suppose  she  be  not 
of  birth  fit  to  mate  with  our  noble  house ! " 
Out  upon  thee,  for  an  earth-bound,  blind 
curmudgeon  of  a  Lord  High  Chancellor ! 
How  could  a  woman  whom  such  slipper 
fitted,  be  but  of  the  noblest  and  the  best, 
as  far  above  us,  mere  Princelet  that  we  are, 
as  the  stars  in  heaven  are  brighter  than  thy 
dull  old  eyes?  Go,  search  the  kingdom,  we 
tell  thee,  from  east  to  west,  from  north  to 
south,  and  see  to  it  that  thou  findest  her,  or 
it  shall  go  hard  with  thee.  By  Venus,  be 
she  a  swineherd's  daughter,  she  shall  be  our 
Queen  —  an  she  deign  to  accept  of  us,  and 
of  our  kingdom. 

Ah,  well,  of  course  it  was  not  a  wise  piece 
of  business,  that  goes  without  saying;  but 
we  were  young,  and  princes  are  only  human. 
Poor  child,  she  could  not  help  her  f;duca- 
tion,  or  rather  her  lack  of  it.  Dear  little 
thing,  the  wonder  is  that  she  has  contriveo 


34    On  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

to  be  no  more  ignorant  than  she  is,  dragged 
up  as  she  was,  neglected  and  overworked. 
Nor  does  life  in  a  kitchen,  amid  the  com- 
panionship of  peasants  and  menials,  tend  to 
foster  the  intellect.  Who  can  blame  her 
for  being  shy  and  somewhat  dull  of  thought? 
Not  we,  generous-minded,  kind-hearted 
Prince  that  we  are.  And  she  is  very  affec- 
tionate. The  family  are  trying,  certainly  ; 
father-in-law  not  a  bad  sort,  though  a  little 
prosy  when  upon  the  subject  of  his  domes- 
tic troubles,  and  a  little  too  fond  of  his 
glass ;  mamma-in-law,  and  those  two  ugly, 
ill-mannered  sisters,  decidedly  a  nuisance 
about  the  palace.  Yet  what  can  we  do  ? 
They  are  our  relations  now,  and  they  don't 
forget  to  let  us  know  it.  Well,  well,  we 
had  to  expect  that,  and  things  might  have 
been  worse.  Anyhow,  she  is  not  jealous  — 
thank  goodness. 

So  the  day  comes  when  poor  little  Cin- 
derella sits  alone  of  a  night  in  the  beautiful 
palace.  The  courtiers  have  gone  home  in 
their  carriages.  The  Lord  High  Chancellor 
has  bowed  himself  out  backwards.  The 
Gold-Stick-in-Waiting  and  the  Grooms  of 
the  Chamber  have  gone  to  their  beds.     The 


Getting  what  One  Wants      35 

Maids  of  Honour  have  said  "  Good-night," 
and  drifted  out  of  the  door,  laughing  and 
whispering  among  themselves.  The  clock 
strikes  twelve  —  one  —  two,  and  still  no 
footstep  creaks  upon  the  stair.  Once  it 
followed  swiftly  upon  the  "  good-night "  of 
the  maids,  who  did  not  laugh  or  whisper 
then. 

At  last  the  door  opens,  and  the  Prince 
enters,  none  too  pleased  at  finding  Cinder- 
ella still  awake.  "  So  sorry  I  'm  late,  my 
love  —  detained  on  affairs  of  state.  Foreign 
policy  very  complicated,  dear.  Have  only 
just  this  moment  left  the  Council  Chamber." 

And  little  Cinderella,  while  the  Prince 
sleeps,  lies  sobbing  out  her  poor  sad  heart 
into  the  beautiful  royal  pillow,  embroidered 
with  the  royal  arms  and  edged  with  the 
royal  monogram  in  lace.  "  Why  did  he 
ever  marry  me  ?  I  should  have  been  hap- 
pier in  the  old  kitchen.  The  black  beetles 
did  frighten  me  a  little,  but  there  was  always 
the  dear  old  cat;  and  sometimes,  when 
mother  and  the  girls  were  out,  papa  would 
call  softly  down  the  kitchen  stairs  for  me  to 
come  up,  and  we  would  have  such  a  merry 
evening    together,    and    sup    off    sausages- 


36     On  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

Dear  old  dad,  I  hardly  ever  see  him  now. 
And  then,  when  my  work  was  done,  how 
pleasant  it  was  to  sit  in  front  of  the  fire,  and 
dream  of  the  wonderful  things  that  would 
come  to  me  some  day !  I  was  always  going 
to  be  a  princess,  even  in  my  dreams,  and 
live  in  a  palace,  but  it  was  so  different  to 
this.  Oh,  how  I  hate  It,  this  beastly  palace 
where  everybody  sneers  at  me  —  I  know 
they  do,  though  they  bow  and  scrape  and 
pretend  to  be  so  polite.  And  I  'm  not 
clever  and  smart  as  they  are.  I  hate  them. 
I  hate  these  bold-faced  women  who  are 
always  here.  That  is  the  worst  of  a  palace, 
everybody  can  come  in.  Oh,  I  hate  every- 
body and  everything.  Oh,  godmamma, 
godmamma,  come  and  take  me  away. 
Take  me  back  to  my  old  kitchen.  Give 
me  back  my  old  poor  frock.  Let  me  dance 
again  with  the  fire-tongs  for  a  partner,  and 
be  happy,  dreaming." 

Poor  little  Cinderella,  perhaps  It  would 
have  been  better  had  godmamma  been  less 
ambitious  for  you,  dear ;  had  you  married 
some  good,  honest  yeoman,  who  would 
never  have  known  that  you  were  not  bril- 
liant, who  would  have   loved  you  because 


Getting  what  One  Wants     2>7 

you  were  just  amiable  and  pretty ;  had  your 
kingdom  been  only  a  farmhouse,  where  your 
knowledge  of  domestic  economy,  gained  so 
hardly,  would  have  been  useful  ;  where  you 
would  have  shone  instead  of  being  over- 
shadowed ;  where  papa  would  have  dropped 
in  of  an  evening  to  smoke  his  pipe  and 
escape  from  his  domestic  wrangles.;  where 
you  would  have  been  real  Oueen. 

But  then  you  know,  dear,  you  would  not 
have  been  content.  Ah,  yes,  with  your 
present  experience,  now  you  know  that 
queens  as  well  as  little  drudges  have  their 
troubles,  but  without  that  experience  ?  You 
would  have  looked  in  the  glass  when  you 
were  alone ;  you  would  have  looked  at  your 
shapely  hands  and  feet,  and  the  shadows 
would  have  crossed  your  pretty  face.  "  Yes," 
you  would  have  said  to  yourself,  "  John 
is  a  dear,  kind  fellow,  and  I  love  him  very 
much,  and  all  that,  but — "  and  the  o'd 
dreams,  dreamt  in  the  old  low-ceilinged 
kitchen  before  the  dying  fire,  would  have 
come  back  to  you,  and  you  would  have  been 
discontented  then  as  now,  only  in  a  different 
way.  Oh,  yes,  you  would,  Cinderella,  though 
you  gravely  shake  your  gold-crowned  head. 


38    On  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

And  let  me  tell  you  why.  It  is  because  you 
are  a  woman,  and  the  fate  of  all  of  us,  men 
and  women  alike,  is  to  be  for  ever  wanting 
what  we  have  not,  and  to  be  finding,  when 
we  have  it,  that  it  is  not  what  we  wanted. 
That  is  the  law  of  life,  dear.  Do  you  think, 
as  you  lie  upon  the  floor  with  your  head 
upon  your  arms,  that  you  are  the  only 
woman  whose  tears  are  soaking  into  the 
hearth-rug  at  that  moment?  My  dear  Prin- 
cess, if  you  could  creep  unseen  about  your 
city,  peeping  at  Vv^i.l  through  the  curtain- 
shielded  windows,  you  would  come  to  think 
that  all  the  worlr'.  was  little  else  than  a  big 
nursery  full  of  crying  children  with  none  to 
comfort  them.  The  doll  is  broken :  no 
longer  it  sweetly  squeaks  in  answer  to  our 
pressure,  "  I  love  you ;  kiss  me."  The 
drum  lies  silent  with  the  drumstick  inside ; 
no  longer  do  we  make  a  brave  noise  in  the 
nursery.  The  box  of  tea-things  we  have 
clumsily  put  our  foot  upon ;  there  will  be 
no  more  merry  parties  around  the  three- 
legged  stool.  The  tin  trumpet  will  not  play 
the  note  we  want  to  sound  ;  the  wooden 
bricks  keep  falling  down ;  the  toy  cannon 
has  exploded  and  burnt  our  fingers.     Never 


Getting  what  One  Wants    39 

mind,  little  man,  little  woman  ;  we  will  try 
and  mend  things  to-morrow. 

And,  after  all,  Cinderella  dear,  you  do  live 
in  a  fine  palace,  and  you  have  jewels  and 
grand  dresses  and —  No,  no,  do  not  be 
indignant  with  me.  Did  not  you  dream  of 
these  things  as  well  as  of  love  ?  Come  now, 
be  honest.  It  was  always  a  prince,  was  it 
not,  or,  at  the  least,  an  exceedingly  well-to-do 
party,  that  handsome  young  gentleman  who 
bowed  to  you  so  gallantly  from  the  red 
embers  ?  He  was  never  a  virtuous  young 
commercial  traveller,  or  cultured  clerk,  earn- 
ing a  salary  of  three  pounds  a  week,  was  he, 
Cinderella?  Yet  there  are  many  charming 
commercial  travellers,  many  delightful  clerks 
with  limited  incomes,  quite  sufficient,  how- 
ever, to  a  sensible  man  and  woman  desiring 
but  each  other's  love.  Why  was  it  always  a 
prince,  Cinderella  ?  Had  the  palace  and  the 
liveried  servants,  and  the  carriages  and  horses, 
and  the  jewels  and  the  dresses,  nothing  to  do 
with  the  dream  ? 

No,  Cinderella,  you  were  human,  that  is 
all.  The  artist  shivering  in  his  conventional 
attic,  dreaming  of  fame  !  —  do  you  think  he 
is  not  hoping  she  will  come  to  his  loving 


40    On  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

arms  in  the  form  Jove  came  to  Danae?  Do 
you  think  he  is  not  reckoning  also  upon  the 
good  dinners  and  the  big  cigars,  the  fur  coat 
and  the  diamond  studs,  that  her  visits  will 
enable  him  to  purchase  ? 

There  is  a  certain  picture  very  popular 
just  now.  You  may  see  it,  Cinderella,  in 
many  of  the  shop-windows  of  the  town.  It 
is  called  "  The  Dream  of  Love,"  and  it  rep- 
resents a  beautiful  young  girl,  sleeping  in  a 
very  beautiful  but  somewhat  disarranged  bed. 
Indeed,  one  hopes,  for  the  sleeper's  sake,  that 
the  night  is  warm,  and  that  the  room  is  fairly 
free  from  draughts.  A  ladder  of  light  streams 
down  from  the  sky  into  the  room,  and  upon 
this  ladder  crowd  and  jostle  one  another  a 
small  army  of  plump  Cupids,  each  one  laden 
with  some  pledge  of  love.  Two  of  the  imps 
are  emptying  a  sack  of  jewels  upon  the  floor. 
Four  others  are  bearing,  well  displayed,  a 
magnificent  dress  (a  "  confection,"  I  believe, 
is  the  proper  term)  cut  somewhat  low,  but 
making  up  in  train  what  is  lacking  elsewhere. 
Others  bear  bonnet-boxes  from  which  peep 
stylish  toques  and  bewitching  hoods.  Some, 
representing  evidently  wholesale  houses, 
stagger,  under  silks  and  satins  in  the  piece. 


Getting  what  One  Wants     4.1 

Cupids  are  there  from  the  shoemakers  with 
the  daintiest  of  bottines.  Stockings,  garters, 
and  even  less  mentlonable  articles  are  rot 
forgotten.  Caskets,  mirrors,  twelve-buttoned 
gloves,  scent  bottles  and  handkerchiefs,  hair- 
pins, and  the  gayest  of  parasols,  has  the  God 
of  Love  piled  into  the  arms  of  his  messengers. 
Really  a  most  practical,  up-to-date.  God  of 
Love,  moving  with  the  times  !  One  feels  that 
the  modern  Temple  of  Love  must  be  a  sort 
of  Swan  and  Edgar's  ;  the  god  himself  a  kind 
of  celestial  shop-walker ;  while  his  mother, 
Venus,  no  doubt  superintends  the  costume 
department.  Quite  an  Olympian  Whiteley, 
this  latter-day  Eros ;  he  has  forgotten  nothing, 
for  at  the  back  of  the  picture  I  notice  one 
Cupid  carrying  a  rather  fat  heart  at  the  end 
of  a  string. 

You,  Cinderella,  could  give  good  counsel  to 
that  sleeping  child.  You  would  say  to  her : 
"  Awake  from  such  dreams.  The  contents 
of  a  pawnbroker's  store-room  will  not  bring 
you  happiness.  Dream  of  love  if  you  will ; 
that  is  a  wise  dream,  even  if  it  remains 
ever  a  dream.  But  these  coloured  beads, 
these  Manchester  goods  !  are  you  then  — • 
you,  heiress  of  all  the  ages  —  still  at  heart 


42     On  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

only  as  some  poor  savage  maiden  but  little 
removed  above  the  monkeys  that  share  the 
primeval  forest  with  her?  Will  you  sell 
your  gold  to  the  first  trader  that  brings  you 
this  barter  !  These  things,  child,  will  only 
dazzle  your  eyes  for  a  few  days.  Do  you 
think  the  Burlington  Arcade  is  the  gate  of 
heaven  ?  " 

Ah,  yes,  I  too  could  talk  like  that,  —  I, 
writer  of  books,  to  the  young  lad,  sick  of  his 
office  stool,  dreaming  of  a  literary  career 
leading  to  fame  and  fortune.  "  And  do  you 
think,  lad,  that  by  that  road  you  will  reach 
Happiness  sooner  than  by  another  ^.  Do 
you  think  interviews  with  yourself  in  penny 
weeklies  will  bring  you  any  satisfaction  after 
the  first  half-dozen  ?  Do  you  think  the 
gushing  female  who  has  read  all  your  books, 
and  who  wonders  what  it  must  feel  like  to 
be  so  clever,  will  be  welcome  to  you  the 
tenth  time  you  meet  her  ?  Do  you  think 
press  cuttings  will  always  consist  of  wonder- 
ing admiration  of  your  genius,  of  paragraphs 
about  your  charming  personal  appearance 
under  the  head  of  *  Our  Celebrities '  ?  Have 
you  thought  of  the  ««complimentary  criti- 
cisms, of  the  spiteful  paragraphs,  of  the  ever- 


Getting  what  One  Wants     43 

lasting  fear  of  slipping  a  few  inches  down  the 
greasy  pole  called  *  popular  taste,'  to  which 
you  are  condemned  to  cling  for  life,  as  some 
lesser  criminal  to  his  weary  tread-mill, 
struggling  with  no  hope  but  not  to  fall  ? 
Make  a  home,  lad,  for  the  woman  who  loves 
you ;  gather  one  or  two  friends  about  you ; 
work,  think,  and  play,  that  will  bring  you 
happiness.  Shun  this  roaring  gingerbread 
fair  that  calls  itself,  forsooth,  the  '  World  of 
art  and  letters.'  Let  its  clowns  and  its  con- 
tortionists fight  among  themselves  for  the 
plaudits  and  the  halfpence  of  the  mob.  Let 
it  be  with  its  shouting  and  its  surging,  its 
blare  and  its  cheap  flare.  Come  away;  the 
summer's  night  is  just  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge,  with  its  silence  and  its  stars." 

You  and  I,  Cinderella,  are  experienced 
people,  and  can  therefore  oflfer  good  advice, 
but  do  you  think  we  should  be  listened  to  ? 

"  Ah,  no,  my  Prince  is  not  as  yours. 
Mine  will  love  me  always,  and  I  am  pecu- 
liarly fitted  for  the  life  of  a  palace.  I  have 
the  instinct  and  the  ability  for  it.  I  am  sure 
I  was  made  for  a  princess.  Thank  you, 
Cinderella,  for  your  well-meant  counsel,  but 
there  is  much  difference  between  you  and 
me." 


44    Oi^  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

That  is  the  answer  you  would  receive,  Cin- 
derella ;  and  my  young  friend  would  say  to 
me :  "  Yes,  I  can  understand  your  finding 
disappointment  in  the  literary  career;  but 
then,  you  see,  our  cases  are  not  quite  similar. 
/  am  not  likely  to  find  much  trouble  in 
keeping  my  position.  /  shall  not  fear  reading 
what  the  critics  say  of  me.  No  doubt  there 
are  disadvantages,  when  you  are  among  the 
ruck,  but  there  is  always  plenty  of  room  at 
the  top.     So  thank  you,  and  good-bye." 

Besides,  Cinderella  dear,  we  should  not 
quite  mean  it,  —  this  excellent  advice.  We 
have  grown  accustomed  to  these  gewgaws, 
and  we  should  miss  them  in  spite  of  our 
knowledge  of  their  trashiness :  you,  your 
palace  and  your  little  gold  crown  ;  I,  my 
mountebank's  cap  and  the  answering  laugh 
that  goes  up  from  the  crowd  when  I  shake 
my  bells.  We  want  everything,  —  all  the 
happiness  that  earth  and  heaven  are  capable 
of  bestowing;  creature  comforts,  and  heart 
and  soul  comforts  also ;  and,  proud-spirited 
beings  that  we  are,  we  will  not  be  put  off 
with  a  part.  Give  us  only  everything,  and 
we  will  be  content.  And,  after  all,  Cinder- 
ella, you  have  had  your  day.      Some  little 


Getting  what  One  Wants    45 

dogs  never  get  theirs.  You  must  not  be 
greedy.  You  have  known  happiness.  The 
palace  was  Paradise  for  those  few  months, 
and  the  Prince's  arms  were  about  you, 
Cinderella,  the  Prince's  kisses  on  your  lips ; 
the  gods  themselves  cannot  take  that  from 
you. 

The  cake  cannot  last  for  ever  if  we  will 
eat  of  it  so  greedily.  There  must  come  the 
day  when  we  have  picked  hungrily  the  last 
crumb ;  when  we  sit  staring  at  the  empty 
board,  nothing  left  of  the  feast,  Cinderella, 
but  the  pain  that  comes  of  feasting. 

It  is  a  naive  confession,  poor  Human  Na- 
ture has  made  to  itself,  in  choosing,  as  it 
has,  this  story  of  Cinderella  for  its  leading 
moral :  Be  good,  little  girl.  Be  meek  under 
your  many  trials.  Be  gentle  and  kind,  in 
spite  of  your  hard  lot,  and  one  day  —  you 
shall  marry  a  prince  and  ride  in  your  own 
carriage.  Be  brave  and  true,  little  boy. 
Work  hard  and  wait  with  patience,  and  in 
the  end,  with  God's  blessing,  you  shall  earn 
riches  enough  to  come  back  to  London  town 
and  marry  your  master's  daughter. 

You  and  I,  gentle  Reader,  could  teach 
these   young   folks    a    truer   lesson,  an  w«" 


46    On  the  Disadvantage  of  not 

would.  "We  know,  alas  !  that  the  road  of  all 
the  virtues  does  not  lead  to  wealth,  rather 
the  contrary  ;  else  how  explain  our  limited 
incomes  ?  But  would  it  be  well,  think  you, 
to  tell  them  bluntly  the  truth  ?  —  that  honesty 
is  the  most  expensive  luxury  a  man  can  in- 
dulge in ;  that  virtue,  if  persisted  in,  leads, 
generally  speaking,  to  a  six-roomed  house  in 
an  outlying  suburb.  Maybe  the  world  is 
wise  :  the  fiction  has  its  uses. 

I  am  acquainted  with  a  fairly  intelligent 
young  lady.  She  can  read  and  write,  knows 
her  tables  up  to  six  times,  and  can  argue. 
I  regard  her  as  representative  of  average 
Humanity  in  its  attitude  towards  Fate ;  and 
this  is  a  dialogue  I  lately  overheard  between 
her  and  an  elder  lady  who  is  good  enough  to 
occasionally  impart  to  her  the  wisdom  of  the 
world:  — 

"  I  Ve  been  good  this  morning,  have  n't 
I?" 

"  Yes ;    oh,  yes,  fairly  good,  for  you." 

"  You  think  papa  will  take  me  to  the  cir- 
cus to-night  ? " 

"  Yes,  if  you  keep  good.  If  you  don'i 
get  naughty  this  afternoon." 

A  pause. 


Getting  what  One  Wants    47 

"  I  was  good  on  Monday,  you  may  re- 
member, nurse." 

"  Tolerably  good." 

"  Very  good,  you  said,  nurse.** 

"  Well,  yes,  you  were  n't  bad.'* 

**  And  I  was  to  have  gone  to  the  panto- 
mime, and  I  did  n't." 

"  Well,  that  was  because  your  aunt  came 
up  suddenly,  and  your  papa  could  n't  get 
another  seat.  Poor  auntie  would  n't  have 
gone  at  all  if  she  hadn't  gone  then." 

"Oh,  would  n't  she  ?  " 

"  No." 

Another  pause. 

"  Do  you  think  she  '11  come  up  suddenly 
to-day  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  No,  I  hope  she  does  n't.  I  want  to  go  to 
the  circus  to-night.  Because,  you  see,  nurse, 
if  I  don't  it  will  discourage  me." 

So  perhaps  the  world  is  wise  in  promis- 
ing us  the  circus.  We  believe  her  at  first. 
But  after  a  while,  I  fear,  we  grow  discouraged. 


ON   THE    EXCEPTIONAL    MERIT 
ATTACHING  TO   THE   THINGS 

WE   MEANT   TO   DO 

9- 

I  CAN  remember  —  but  then  I  can  re- 
member a  long  time  ago.  You,  gentle 
Reader,  just  entering  upon  the  prime  of  life, 
that  age  by  thoughtless  youtli  called  middle, 
I  cannot,  of  course,  expect  to  follow  me  — 
when  there  was  in  great  demand  a  certain 
periodical  ycleped  The  Amateur.  Its  aim 
was  noble.  It  sought  to  teach  the  beautiful 
lesson  of  independence,  to  inculcate  the  fine 
doctrine  of  self-help.  One  chapter  explained 
to  a  man  how  he  might  make  flower-pots  out 
of  Australian  meat-cans  ;  another  how  he 
might  turn  butter-tubs  into  music-stools ; 
a  third  how  he  might  utilise  old  bonnet- 
boxes  for  Venetian  blinds  :  that  was  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  whole  scheme,  — you  made  every- 
thing from  something  not  intended  for  it, 
ftnd  as  il'  suited  to  the  purpose  as  possible. 


Things  we  Meant  to  Do    49 

Tv/o  pages,  I  distinctly  recollect,  were 
devoted  to  the  encouragement  of  the  manu- 
facture of  umbrella-stands  out  of  old  gas-pip- 
ing.- Anything  less  adapted  to  the  receipt 
of  hats  and  umbrellas  than  gas-piping  I  can- 
not myself  conceive ;  had  there  been,  I  feel 
sure  the  author  would  have  thought  of  it, 
and  would  have  recommended  it. 

Picture-frames  you  fashioned  out  of  gin- 
ger-beer corks.  You  saved  your  ginger-beer 
corks,  you  found  a  picture  —  and  the  thing 
was  complete.  How  much  ginger-beer  it 
would  be  necessary  to  drink,  preparatory  to 
the  making  of  each  frame,  and  the  effect  of 
it  upon  the  frame-maker's  physical,  mental, 
and  moral  well-being,  did  not  concern  The 
Amateur.  I  calculate  that  for  a  fair-sized 
picture  sixteen  dozen  bottles  might  suffice. 
Whether,  after  sixteen  dozen  of  ginger-beer, 
a  man  would  take  any  interest  in  framing  a 
picture — whether  he  would  retain  any  pride 
in  the  picture  itself —  is  doubtful.  But  this 
of  course  was  not  the  point. 

One  young  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance 

—  the  son  of  the  gardener  of  my  sister,  as 

friend  Ollendorff  would  have  described  him  — 

did  succeed  in  getting  through  sufficient  gin- 
.  4 


50     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

ger-beer  to  frame  his  grandfather,  but  the 
result  was  not  encouraging.  Indeed,  the 
gardener's  wife  herself  was  but  ill  satisfied. 

"  What 's  all  them  corks  round  father  ?  " 
was  her  first  question. 

"  Can't  you  see  .?  "  was  the  somewhat  indig- 
nant reply  ;  "  that 's  the  frame." 

"  Oh  !  but  why  corks  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  book  said  corks." 

Still  the  old  lady  remained  unimpressed. 

"  Somehow  it  don't  look  like  father  now," 
she  sighed. 

Her  eldest-born  grew  irritable :  none  of 
us  appreciate  criticism  ! 

"What  does  it  look  hke,  then?"  he 
growled. 

"Well,  I  dunno.  Seems  to  me  to  look 
like  nothing  but  corks." 

The  old  lady's  view  was  cor^-ect.  Certain 
schools  of  art  possibly  lend  themselves  to 
this  method  of  framing.  I  myself  have 
seen  a  funeral  card  improved  by  it ;  but, 
generally  speaking,  the  consequence  was  a 
predominance  of  frame  at  the  expense  of 
the  thing  framed.  The  more  honest  and 
tasteful  of  the  frame-makers  would  admit 
as  much  themselves. 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do    5  i 

"Yes,  it  is  ugly  when  you  look  at  it,'* 
said  one  to  me,  as  we  stood  surveying  it 
from  the  centre  of  the  room.  "  But  what 
one  feels  about  it  is  that  one  has  done  it 
oneself" 

Which  reflection,  I  have  noticed,  recon- 
ciles us  to  many  other  things  beside  cork 
frames. 

Another  young  gentleman  friend  of  mine 

—  for  I  am  bound  to  admit  it  was  youth 
that  profited  most  by  the  advice  and  coun- 
sel of  The  Amateur :  I  suppose  as  one  gets 
older  one  gets  less  daring,  less  industrious 

—  made  a  rocking-chair,  according  to  the 
instructions  of  this  book,  out  of  a  couple 
of  beer  barrels.  From  every  practical  point 
of  view  it  was  a  bad  rocking-chair.  It 
rocked  too  much,  and  it  rocked  in  too 
many  directions  at  one  and  the  same  time. 
I  take  it,  a  man  sitting  on  a  rocking-chair 
does  not  want  to  be  continually  rocking. 
There  comes  a  time  when  he  says  to  him- 
self, "  Now  I  have  rocked  sufficiently  for 
the  present ;  now  I  will  sit  still  for  a  while, 
lest  a  worse  thing  befall  me."  But  this  was 
one  of  those  headstrong  rocking-chairs  that 
are  «  danger  to  humanity  and  a  nuisance 


5  2     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

to  themselves.  Its  notion  was  that  it  was 
made  to  rock,  and  that  when  it  was  not  rock- 
ing, it  was  wasting  its  time.  Once  started, 
nothing  could  stop  it,  nothing  ever  did  stop 
it,  until  it  found  itself  topsy-turvy  on  its 
own  occupant.  That  was  the  only  thing 
that  ever  sobered  it. 

I  had  called,  and  had  been  shown  into 
the  empty  drawing-room.  The  rocking- 
chair  nodded  invitingly  at  me.  I  never 
guessed  it  was  an  amateur  rocking-chair. 
I  was  young  in  those  days,  with  faith  in 
human  nature,  and  I  imagined  that  what- 
ever else  a  man  might  attempt  without 
knowledge  or  experience,  no  one  would  be 
fool  enough  to  experiment  upon  a  rocking- 
chair. 

I  threw  myself  into  it  lightly  and  care- 
lessly. I  immediately  noticed  the  ceiling. 
I  made  an  instinctive  movement  forward. 
The  window  and  a  momentary  glimpse  of 
the  wooded  hills  beyond  shot  upwards  and 
disappeared.  The  carpet  flashed  across  my 
eyes,  and  I  caught  sight  of  my  own  boots 
vanishing  beneath  me  at  the  rate  of  about 
two  hundred  miles  an  hour.  I  made  a  con- 
vulsive effort  to  recover  them.     I  suppose 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do     53 

I  overdid  it.  I  saw  the  whole  of  the  room 
at  once,  —  the  four  walls,  the  ceiling,  and  the 
floor  at  the  same  moment.  It  was  a  sort 
of  vision.  I  saw  the  cottage  piano  upside 
down,  and  I  again  saw  my  own  boots  flash 
past  me,  this  time  over  my  head,  soles  up- 
permost. Never  before  had  I  been  in  a 
position  where  my  own  boots  had  seemed 
so  all-pervading.  The  next  moment  I  lost 
my  boots,  and  stopped  the  carpet  with  my 
head  just  as  it  was  rushing  past  me.  At 
the  same  instant  something  hit  me  violently 
in  the  small  of  the  back.  Reason,  when 
recovered,  suggested  that  my  assailant  must 
be  the  rocking-chair.  Investigation  proved 
the  surmise  correct.  Fortunately  I  was  still 
alone,  and  in  consequence  was  able,  a  few 
minutes  later,  to  meet  my  hostess  with  calm 
and  dignity.  I  said  nothing  about  the 
rocking-chair.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was 
hoping  to  have  the  pleasure,  before  I  went, 
of  seeing  some  other  guest  arrive  and  sample 
it :  I  had  purposely  replaced  it  in  the  most 
prominent  and  convenient  position.  But 
though  I  felt  capable  of  schooling  myself 
to  silence,  I  found  myself  unable  to  agree 
with  my  hostess  when    she   called    for   my 


54     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

admiration  of  the  thing.  My  recent  ex- 
periences had  too  deeply  embittered  me. 

"Willie  made  it  himself,"  explained  the 
fond' mother.  "Don't  you  think  it  was 
very  clever  of  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  was  clever,"  I  replied.  "  I 
am  willing  to  admit  that." 

"  He  made  it  out  of  some  old  beer  bar- 
rels," she  continued ;  she  seemed  proud 
of  it. 

My  resentment,  though  1  tried  to  keep 
it  under  control,  was  mounting  higher. 

"  Oh  !  did  he  ?  "  I  said ;  "  I  should  have 
thought  he  might  have  found  something 
better  to  do  with  them." 

"  What  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh !  well,  many  things,"  I  retorted. 
"  He  might  have  filled  them  again  with 
beer." 

My  hostess  looked  at  me  astonished. 
I  felt  some  reason  for  my  tone  was  ex- 
pected. 

"  You  see,"  I  explained,  "  it  is  not  a  well- 
made  chair.  These  rockers  are  too  short 
and  they  are  too  curved,  and  one  of  them, 
if  you  notice,  is  higher  than  the  other  and 
of  a  smaller  radius ;  the  back  is  at  too  ob- 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do     55 

tuse  an  angle.  When  it  is  occupied  the 
centre  of  gravity  becomes  —  " 

My  hostess  interrupted  me. 

"  You  have  been  sitting  on  it,"  she  said. 

"  Not  for  long,"  I  assured  her. 

Her  tone  changed.  She  became  apolo- 
getic. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said.  "  It  looks  all 
right." 

"  It  does,"  I  agreed;  "that  is  where  the 
dear  lad's  cleverness  displays  itself.  Its 
appearance  disarms  suspicion.  With  judg- 
ment that  chair  might  be  made  to  serve  a 
really  useful  purpose.  There  are  mutual 
acquaintances  of  ours,  —  I  mention  no  names, 
you  will  know  them,  —  pompous,  self-sat- 
isfied, superior  persons,  who  would  be 
improved  by  that  chair.  If  I  were  Willie  I 
should  disguise  the  mechanism  with  some 
artistic  drapery,  bait  the  thing  with  a  couple 
of  exceptionally  inviting  cushions,  and  em- 
ploy it  to  inculcate  modesty  and  diffidence. 
I  defy  any  human  being  to  get  out  of  that 
chair  feeling  as  important  as  when  he  got 
into  it.  What  the  dear  boy  has  done  has 
been  to  construct  an  automatic  exponent  of 
the   transitory  nature    of  human  greatness. 


56     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

As  a  moral  agency,  that  chair  should  prove 
a  blessing  in  disguise." 

My  hostess  smiled  feebly ;  more,  I  fear, 
from  politeness  than  genuine  enjoyment. 

"  I  think  you  are  too  severe,"  she  said. 
"When  you  remember  that  the  boy  has 
never  tried  his  hand  at  anything  of  the  kind 
before,  that  he  has  no  knowledge  and  no 
experience,  it  really  is  not  so  bad." 

Considering  the  matter  from  that  point  of 
view,  I  was  bound  to  concur.  I  did  not  like 
to  suggest  to  her  that  before  entering  upon 
a  difficult  task  it  would  be  better  for  young 
men  to  acquire  knowledge  and  experience  : 
that  is  so  unpopular  a  theory. 

But  *he  thing  that  The  Amateur  put  in 
the  front  and  foremost  of  its  propaganda 
was  the  manufacture  of  household  furniture 
out  of  egg-boxes.  Why  egg-boxes,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  understand,  but  egg- 
boxes,  according  to  the  prescription  of  The 
Amateur^  formed  the  foundation  of  household 
existence.  With  a  sufficient  supply  of  egg- 
boxes,  and  what  The  Amateur  termed  a 
"  natural  deftness,"  no  young  couple  need 
hesitate  to  face  the  furnishing  problem. 
Three  egg-boxes  made  a  writing-table  ;   on 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do    57 

another  egg-box  you  sat  to  write ;  your 
books  were  ranged  in  egg-boxes  around  you, 
—  and  there  was  your  study,  complete. 

For  the  dining-room  two  egg-boxes  made 
an  over-mantel ;  four  egg-boxes  and  a  piece 
of  looking-glass  a  sideboard ;  while  six  egg- 
boxes,  with  some  wadding  and  a  yard  or  so 
of  cretonne,  constituted  a  so-called  "cosy 
corner."  About  the  "  corner  "  there  could 
be  no  possible  doubt.  You  sat  on  a  corner ; 
you  leant  against  a  corner ;  whichever  way 
you  moved  you  struck  a  fresh  corner.  The 
"  cosiness,"  however,  I  deny.  Egg-boxes  I 
admit  can  be  made  useful ;  I  am  even  pre- 
pared to  imagine  them  ornamental ;  but 
**  cosy,"  no.  I  have  sampled  egg-boxes  in 
many  shapes.  I  speak  of  years  ago,  when 
the  world  and  we  were  younger,  when  our 
fortune  was  the  Future  ;  secure  in  which,  we 
hesitated  not  to  set  up  house  upon  incomes 
folks  with  lesser  expectations  might  have 
deemed  insufficient.  Under  such  circum- 
stances, the  sole  alternative  to  the  egg-box, 
or  similar  school  of  furniture,  would  have 
been  the  strictly  classical,  consisting  of  a 
doorway  joined  to  architectural  proportions. 

I    have    from    Saturday    to    Monday,    aa 


58     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

honoured  guest,  hung  my  clothes  in  egg- 
boxes.  I  have  sat  on  an  egg-box  at  an  egg- 
box  to  take  my  dish  of  tea.  I  have  made 
love  on  egg-boxes — aye,  and  to  feel  again 
the  blood  running  through  my  veins  as  then 
it  ran,  I  would  be  content  to  sit  only  on  egg- 
boxes  till  the  time  should  come  when  I 
could  be  buried  in  an  egg-box,  with  an  egg- 
box  reared  above  me  as  tombstone  —  I  have 
spent  many  an  evening  on  an  egg-box;  I 
have  gone  to  bed  in  egg-boxes.  They  have 
their  points  —  I  am  intending  no  pun  — 
but  to  claim  for  them  cosiness  would  be  but 
to  deceive. 

How  quaint  they  were,  those  home-made 
rooms  !  They  rise  out  of  shadows  and 
shape  themselves  again  before  my  eyes.  I 
see  the  knobly  sofa ;  the  easy-chairs  that 
might  have  been  designed  by  the  Grand  In- 
quisitor himself;  the  dented  settle  that  was 
a  bed  by  night;  the  few  blue  plates  pur- 
chased in  the  slums  ojff"  Wardour  Street; 
the  enamelled  stool  to  which  one  always 
stuck ;  the  mirror  framed  in  silk ;  the  two 
Japanese  fans  crossed  beneath  each  cheap 
engraving ;  the  piano-cloth  embroidered  in 
peacock's  feathers  by  Annie's  sister ;  the  tea- 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do    59 

cloth  worked  by  Cousin  Jenny.  We  dreamt, 
sitting  on  these  egg-boxes,  —  for  we  were 
young  ladies  and  gentlemen  with  artistic 
taste,  —  of  the  days  when  we  would  eat  in 
Chippendale  dining-rooms,  sip  our  coffee 
in  Louis  Quatorze  drawing-rooms,  and  be 
happy.  Well,  we  have  got  on,  some  of  us, 
since  then,  as  Mr.  Bumpus  used  •  to  say ; 
and  I  notice,  when  on  visits,  that  some  of  us 
have  contrived  so  that  we  do  sit  on  Chip- 
pendale chairs,  at  Sheraton  dining-tables,  and 
are  warmed  from  Adam's  fireplaces ;  but, 
ah,  me,  where  are  the  dreams,  the  hopes, 
the  enthusiasms  that  clung  Hke  the  scent  of 
a  March  morning  about  those  gimcrack 
second  floors.^  In  the  dust-bin,  I  fear,  with 
the  cretonne-covered  egg-boxes  and  the 
penny  fans.  Fate  is  so  terribly  even- 
handed.  As  she  gives  she  ever  takes  away. 
She  flung  us  a  few  shillings  and  hope,  where 
now  she  doles  us  out  pounds  and  fears.  Why 
did  not  we  know  how  happy  we  were,  sitting 
crowned  with  sweet  conceit  upon  our  egg- 
box  thrones  ? 

Yes,  Dick,  you  have  climbed  well.  You 
edit  a  great  newspaper.  You  spread  abroad 
the   message  —  well,  the   message    that   Sir 


6o     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

Joseph  Goldbug,  your  proprietor,  instructs 
you  to  spread  abroad.  You  teach  mankind 
the  lessons  that  Sir  Joseph  Goldbug  wishes 
them  to  learn.  They  say  he  is  to  have  a  peer- 
age next  year.  I  am  sure  he  has  earned  it ; 
and  perhaps  there  may  be  a  knighthood  for 
you,  Dick. 

Tom,  you  are  getting  on  now.  You  have 
abandoned  those  unsaleable  allegories.  What 
rich  art  patron  cares  to  be  told  continually 
by  his  own  walls  that  Midas  had  ass's  ears ; 
that  Lazarus  sits  ever  at  the  gate.  You 
paint  portraits  now,  and  everybody  tells  me 
you  are  the  coming  man.  That  "  Impres- 
sion "  of  old  Lady  Jezebel  was  really  won- 
derful. The  woman  looks  quite  handsome, 
and  yet  it  is  her  ladyship.  Your  touch  is 
truly  marvellous. 

But  into  your  success,  Tom,  Dick,  old 
friend,  do  not  there  creep  moments  when  you 
would  that  we  could  fish  up  those  old  egg- 
boxes  from  the  past,  refurnish  with  them  the 
dingy  rooms  in  Camden  Town,  and  find 
again  there  our  youth,  our  loves,  and  our 
beliefs  ? 

An  incident  brought  back  to  my  mind, 
the  other  day,  the  thoughc  of  all  these  things. 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do    6 1 

I  called  for  the  first  time  upon  a  man,  an 
actor,  who  had  asked  me  to  come  and  see 
him  in  the  Httle  home  where  he  lives  with 
his  old  father.  To  my  astonishment,  —  for 
the  craze,  I  believe,  has  long  since  died  out, 
—  I  found  the  house  half  furnished  out  of 
packing-cases,  butter-tubs,  and  egg-boxes. 
My  friend  earns  his  twenty  pounds  a  week, 
but  it  was  the  old  father's  hobby,  so  he  ex- 
plained to  me,  the  making  of  these  mon- 
strosities ;  and  of  them  he  was  as  proud  as 
though  they  were  specimen  furniture  out  of 
the  South  Kensington  Museum. 

He  took  me  into  the  dining-room  to  show 
me  the  latest  outrage,  —  a  new  bookcase.  A 
greater  disfigurement  to  the  room,  which 
was  otherwise  prettily  furnished,  could  hardly 
be  imagined.  There  was  no  need  for  him 
to  assure  me,  as  he  did,  that  it  had  been 
made  out  of  nothing  but  egg-boxes.  One 
could  see  at  a  glance  that  it  was  made  out  of 
egg-boxes,  and  badly  constructed  egg-boxes 
at  that,  —  egg-boxes  that  were  a  disgrace  to 
the  firm  that  had  turned  them  out ;  egg- 
boxes  not  worthy  the  storage  of  "  shop  'uns  " 
at  eighteen  the  shilling. 

We  went  upstairs  to  my  friend's  bedroom. 


62     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

He  opened  the  door  as  a  man  might  open 
the  door  of  a  museum  of  gems. 

"  The  old  boy,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  with 
his  hand  upon  the  door-knob,  "  made 
everything  you  see  here,  —  everything," 
and  we  entered.  He  drew  my  attention 
to  the  wardrobe.  "  Now  I  will  hold  it 
up,"  he  said,  "  while  you  pull  the  door  open  ; 
I  think  the  floor  must  be  a  bit  uneven  ;  it 
wobbles  if  you  are  not  careful."  It  wobbled 
notwithstanding,  but  by  coaxing  and  humour- 
ing we  succeeded  without  mishap.  I  was 
surprised  to  notice  a  very  small  supply  of 
clothes  within,  although  my  friend  is  a 
dressy  man. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "  I  dare  not  use 
it  more  than  I  can  help.  I  am  a  clumsy 
chap,  and  as  likely  as  not,  if  I  happened  to 
be  in  a  hurry,  I  'd  have  the  whole  thing 
over :  "  which  seemed  probable. 

I  asked  him  how  he  contrived.  "  I  dress 
in  the  bath-room  as  a  rule,"  he  replied ;  "  I 
keep  most  of  my  things  there.  Of  course 
the  old  boy  does  n't  know." 

He  showed  me  a  chest  of  drawers.  One 
drawer  stood  half  open. 

"  I  *m  bound  to  leave  that  drawer  open/' 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do     6^ 

he  said ;  "  I  keep  the  things  I  use  in  that. 
They  don't  shut  quite  easily,  these  drawers ; 
or  rather,  they  shut  all  right,  but  then  they 
won't  open.  It  is  the  weather,  I  think. 
They  will  open  and  shut  all  right  in  the 
summer,  I  dare  say."  He  is  of  a  hopeful 
disposition. 

But  the  pride  of  the  room  was  the  wash- 
stand. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  ?  "  cried  he. 
enthusiastically,  "  real  marble  top." 

He  did  not  expatiate  further.  In  his  ex- 
citement he  had  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
thing,  with  the  natural  result  that  it  col- 
lapsed. More  by  accident  than  design,  I 
caught  the  jug  in  my  arms.  I  also  caught 
the  water  it  contained.  The  basin  rolled  on 
its  edge,  and  little  damage  was  done,  except 
to  me  and  the  soap-box. 

I  could  not  pump  up  much  admiration 
for  this  washstand  ;  I  was  feeling  too  wet. 

"  What  do  you  do  when  you  want  to 
wash  ?  "  1  asked,  as  together  we  reset  the 
trap. 

There  fell  upon  him  the  manner  of  a  con- 
spirator revealing  secrets.  He  glanced 
guiltily  round  the  room  ;  then,  creeping  on 


64     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

tiptoe,  he  opened  a  cupboard  behind  the 
bed.  Within  was  a  tin  basin  and  a  small 
can. 

"  Don't  tell  the  old  boy,"  he  said.  "  I 
keep  these  things  here,  and  wash  on  the 
floor." 

That  was  the  best  thing  1  myself  ever  got 
out  of  egg-boxes,  —  that  picture  of  a  deceit- 
ful son  stealthily  washing  himself  upon  the 
floor  behind  the  bed,  trembling  at  every 
footstep  lest  it  might  be  the  "  old  boy " 
coming  to   the  door. 

One  wonders  whether  the  Ten  Command- 
ments are  so  all-sufficient  as  we  good  folk 
deem  them,  —  whether  the  eleventh  is  no': 
worth  the  whole  pack  of  them. :  "  that  ye 
iove  one  another  "  with  just  a  commonplace, 
human,  practical  love.  Could  not  the  other 
ten  be  comfortably  stowed  away  into  a  cor- 
ner of  that?  One  is  inclined,  in  one's 
anarchic  moments,  to  agree  with  Loui? 
Stevenson,  that  to  be  amiable  and  cheerful 
is  a  good  religion  for  a  workaday  world. 
We  are  so  busy  not  killing,  not  stealing,  not 
coveting  our  neighbour's  wife,  we  have  not 
time  to  be  even  just  to  one  another  for  the 
little  we  are  together  here.     Need  we  be  so 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do    65 

:ocksure  that  our  present  list  of  virtues  and 
Ibices  is  the  only  possibly  correct  and  com- 
plete one  ?  Is  the  kind,  unselfish  man  nec- 
essarily a  villain  because  he  does  not  always 
succeed  in  suppressing  his  natural  instincts  ? 
Is  the  narrow-hearted,  sour-souled  man,  in- 
capable of  a  generous  thought  or  act,  neces- 
sarily a  saint  because  he  has  none  ?  '  Have 
we  not — we  unco'  guid  —  arrived  at  a  wrong 
method  of  estimating  our  frailer  brothers  and 
sisters  ?  We  judge  them,  as  critics  judge 
books,  not  by  the  good  that  Is  in  them,  but 
by  their  faults.  Poor  King  David  !  What 
would  the  local  Vigilance  Society  have  had 
to  say  to  him  ?  Noah,  according  to  our  plan, 
would  be  denounced  from  every  teetotal 
platform  in  the  country,  and  Ham  would 
head  the  Local  Vestry  poll  as  a  reward  for 
having  exposed  him.  And  St.  Peter  !  weak, 
frail  St.  Peter,  how  lucky  for  him  that  his 
fellow-disciples  and  their  Master  were  not  as 
strict  In  their  notions  of  virtue  as  are  we 
to-day! 

Have  we  not  forgotten  the  meaning  of  the 

word    "virtue"?     Once    it    stood    for    the 

good  that  was  In  a  man.  Irrespective  of  the 

evil  that  might  He  there  also,  as  tares  among 

s 


66     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

the  wheat.  We  have  abolished  virtue,  and 
for  it  substituted  virtues.  Not  the  hero  — 
he  was  too  full  of  faults  —  but  the  blameless 
valet ;  not  the  man  who  does  any  good, 
but  the  man  who  has  not  been  found  out  in  any 
evil,  is  our  modern  ideal.  The  most  virtu- 
ous thing  in  nature,  according  to  this  new 
theory,  should  be  the  oyster.  He  is  always 
at  home,  and  always  sober.  He  is  not  noisy. 
He  gives  no  trouble  to  the  police.  I  cannot 
think  of  a  single  one  of  the  Ten  Command- 
ments that  he  ever  breaks.  He  never  en- 
joys himself,  and  he  never,  so  long  as  he 
lives,  gives  a  moment's  pleasure  to  any  other 
living  thing. 

I  can  imagine  the  oyster  lecturing  a  lion 
on  the  subject  of  morality. 

"  You  never  hear  me,"  the  oyster  might 
say,  "  howling  round  camps  and  villages, 
making  night  hideous,  frightening  quiet  folk 
out  of  their  lives.  Why  don't  you  go  to 
bed  early,  as  I  do  ?  I  never  prowl  round 
the  oyster-bed,  fighting  other  gentlemen 
oysters,  making  love  to  lady  oysters  already 
married.  I  never  kill  antelopes  or  mission- 
aries. Why  can't  you  live  as  I  do  on  salt 
water  and  germs,  or  whatever  it  is  that  I  do 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do    &^ 

live  on  !  Why  .don't  you  try  to  be  more 
like  me?  " 

An  oyster  has  no  evil  passions,  therefore 
we  say  he  is  a  virtuous  fish.  We  never  ask 
ourselves,  "  Has  he  any  good  passions  ?  " 
A  lion's  behaviour  is  often  such  as  no 
just  man  could  condone.  Has  he  not  his 
good  points  also  ? 

Will  the  fat,  sleeky,  "  virtuous  "  man  be 
as  welcome  at  the  gate  of  heaven  as  he 
supposes  ? 

"  Well,"  St.  Peter  may  say  to  him,  open- 
ing the  door  a  little  way  and  looking  hirrii 
up  and  down,  "  what  is  it  now  ?  " 

"It's  me,"  the  virtuous  man  will  replyj 
with  an  oily,  self-satisfied  smile ;  "  I  should 
say,  I  —  I  've  come." 

"  Yes,  I  see  you  have  come  ;  but  whav 
is  your  claim  to  admittance  ?  What  have 
you  done  with  your  threescore  years  and 
ten  ? " 

"  Done  !  "  the  virtuous  man  will  answer; 
"  I  have  done  nothing,  I  assure  you." 

"  Nothing !  " 

"  Nothing  ;  that  is  my  strong  point;  that 
is  why  I  am  here.  I  have  never  done  any 
wrong.** 


68     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

"And  what  good  have  you  done? " 

"  What  good  !  " 

"  Aye,  what  good  ?  Do  not  you  eveii 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word  ?  What 
human  creature  is  the  better  for  your  having 
eaten  and  drunk  and  slept  these  years  ? 
You  have  done  no  harm,  —  no  harm  to 
yourself.  Perhaps  if  you  had  you  might 
have  done  some  good  with  it ;  the  two  are 
generally  to  be  found  together  down  below, 
I  remember.  What  good  have  you  done 
that  you  should  enter  here  ?  This  is  no 
mummy  chamber ;  this  is  the  place  of  men 
and  women  who  have  lived  ;  who  have 
wrought  good  —  and  evil  also,  alas  !  for  the 
sinners  who  fight  for  the  right,  not  the  right- 
eous who  run  with  their  souls  from  the 
fight." 

It  was  not,  however,  to  speak  of  these 
things  that  I  remembered  The  Amateur  and 
its  lessons.  My  intention  was  but  to  lead  up 
to  the  story  of  a  certain  small  boy,  who  in 
the  doing  of  tasks  not  required  of  him  was 
exceedingly  clever.  I  wish  to  tell  you  his 
story,  because,  as  do  most  true  tales,  it 
possesses  a  moral ;  and  stories  without  a 
moral   I  deem   to  be  but  foolish  literature. 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do    69 

resembling  roads  that  lead  to  nowhere,  such 
as  sick  folk  tramp  for  exercise. 

I  have  known  this  little  boy  to  take  an 
expensive  eight-day  clock  to  pieces  and 
make  of  it  a  toy  steamboat.  True,  it  was 
not,  when  made,  very  much  of  a  steamboat ; 
but  taking  into  consideration  all  the  difficul- 
ties —  the  inadaptability  of  eight-day  clock 
machinery  to  steamboat  requirements,  the 
necessity  of  getting  the  work  accomplished 
quickly,  before  conservatively-minded  people 
with  no  enthusiasm  for  science  could  inter- 
fere —  a  good  enough  steamboat.  With 
merely  an  ironing-board  and  a  few  dozen 
meat-skewers,  he  would — provided  the 
ironing-board  was  not  missed  in  time  —  turn 
out  quite  a  practicable  rabbit-hutch.  He 
could  make  a  gun  out  of  an  umbrella  and  a 
gas-bracket,  which,  if  not  so  accurate  as  a 
Martini-Henry,  was  at  all  events  more 
deadly.  With  half  the  garden-hose,  a 
copper  scalding-pan  out  of  the  dairy,  and  a 
few  Dresden  china  ornaments  off  the  draw- 
ing-room mantel-piece,  he  would  build  a 
fountain  for  the  garden.  He  could  make 
book-shelves  out  of  kitchen  tables,  and 
crossbows    out     of    crinolines.      He    could 


70     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

dam  you  a  stream  so  that  all  the  water 
would  flow  over  the  croquet  lawn.  He 
knew  how  to  make  red  paint  and  oxygen 
gas,  together  with  many  other  such-like 
commodities  handy  to  have  about  a  house. 
Among  other  things  he  learned  how  to  make 
fireworks,  and  after  a  few  explosions  of  an 
unimportant  character  came  to  make  them 
very  well  indeed.  The  boy  who  can  play  a 
good  game  of  cricket  is  liked.  The  boy 
who  can  fight  well  is  respected.  The  boy 
who  can  cheek  a  master  is  loved.  But  the 
boy  who  can  make  fireworks  is  revered 
above  all  others  as  a  boy  belonging  to  a 
superior  order  of  beings.  The  fifth  of 
November  was  at  hand,  and  with  the  con- 
sent of  an  indulgent  mother  he  determined 
to  give  to  the  world  a  proof  of  his  powers. 
A  large  party  of  friends,  relatives,  and 
schoolmates  was  invited,  and  for  a  fortnight 
beforehand  the  scullery  was  converted  into  a 
manufactory  for  fireworks.  The  female 
servants  went  about  in  hourly  terror  of  their 
lives,  and  the  villa,  did  we  judge  exclusively 
by  smell,  one  might  have  imagined  had  been 
taken  over  by  Satan,  his  main  premises  being 
inconveniently  crowded,  as  an  annex.     By  the 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do     71 

evening  of  the  fourth  all  was  in  readiness, 
and  samples  were  tested  to  make  sure  that 
no  contretemps  should  occur  the  following 
night.  All  was  found  to  be  perfect.  The 
rockets  rushed  heavenward  and  descended 
in  stars,  the  Roman  candles  tossed  their  fiery 
balls  into  the  darkness,  the  Catherine  wheels 
sparkled  and  whirled,  the  crackers  .cracked, 
and  the  squibs  banged.  That  night  he 
went  to  bed  a  proud  and  happy  boy,  and 
dreamed  of  fame.  He  stood  surrounded 
by  blazing  fireworks,  and  the  vast  crowd 
cheered  him.  His  relations,  most  of  v/hom, 
he  knew,  regarded  him  as  the  coming  idiot 
of  the  family,  were  there  to  witness  his  tri- 
umph ;  so  too  was  Dickey  Bowles,  who 
laughed  at  him  because  he  could  not  throw 
straight.  The  girl  at  the  bun-shop,  she 
also  was  there,  and   saw  that   he  was  clever. 

The  night  of  the  festival  arrived,  and 
with  it  the  guests.  They  sat,  wrapped  up 
in  shawls  and  cloaks,  outside  the  hall  door, 
—  uncles,  cousins,  aunts,  little  boys  and  big 
boys,  little  girls  and  big  girls,  with,  as  the 
theatre  posters  say,  villagers  and  retainers, 
some  forty  of  them  in  all,  and  waited. 

But  the  fireworks  did  not  go  off.     Why 


72     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

they  did  not  go  off  I  cannot  explain ;  no- 
body ever  could  explain.  The  laws  of  na- 
ture seemed  to  be  suspended  for  that  night 
only.  The  rockets  fell  down  and  died 
where  they  stood.  No  human  agency 
seemed  able  to  ignite  the  squibs.  The 
crackers  gave  one  bang  and  collapsed.  The 
Roman  candles  might  have  been  English 
rushlights.  The  Catherine  wheels  became 
mere  revolving  glow-worms.  The  fiery 
serpents  could  not  collect  among  them  the 
spirit  of  a  tortoise.  The  set  piece,  a  ship 
at  sea,  showed  one  mast  and  the  captain, 
and  then  went  out.  One  or  two  items  did 
their  duty,  but  this  only  served  to  render 
the  foolishness  of  the  whole  more  striking. 
The  little  girls  giggled,  the  little  boys  chaffed, 
the  aunts  and  cousins  said  it  was  beautiful, 
the  uncles  inquired  if  it  was  all  over,  and 
talked  about  supper  and  trains,  the  "  vil- 
lagers and  retainers "  dispersed  laughing, 
the  indulgent  mother  said,  "  Never  mind," 
and  explained  how  well  everything  had  gone 
off  yesterday ;  the  clever  little  boy  crept 
upstairs  to  his  room,  and  blubbered  his 
heart  out  in  the  dark. 

Hours  later,  when  the  crowd  had  forgot- 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do     "ji^ 

ten  him,  he  stole  out  again  into  the  garden. 
He  sat  down  amid  the  ruins  of  his  hope, 
and  wondered  what  could  have  caused  th( 
fiasco.  Still  puzzled,  he  drew  from  hi; 
pocket  a  box  of  matches,  and,  lighting  onCj 
he  held  it  to  the  seared  end  of  a  rocket  he 
had  tried  in  vain  to  light  four  hours  ago. 
It  smouldered  for  an  instant,  then  shot  with 
a  swish  into  the  air,  and  broke  into  a  hun- 
dred points  of  fire.  He  tried  another  and 
another  with  the  same  result.  He  made  a 
fresh  attempt  to  fire  the  set  piece.  Point 
by  point  the  whole  picture  —  minus  the 
captain  and  one  mast  —  came  out  of  the 
night,  and  stood  revealed  in  all  the  majesty 
of  flame.  Its  sparks  fell  upon  the  piled-up 
heap  of  candles,  wheels,  and  rockets  that  a 
little  while  before  had  obstinately  refused  to 
burn,  and  that,  one  after  another,  had  been 
thrown  aside  as  useless.  Now  with  the 
night  frost  upon  them,  they  leaped  to  light 
in  one  grand  volcanic  eruption.  And  in 
front  of  the  gorgeous  spectacle  he  stood 
with  only  one  consolation.  —  his  mother's 
hand  in  his. 

The  whole  thing  was  a   mystery  to  him 
at  the  time,  but,  as  he  learned  to  know  life 


74     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

better,  he  came  to  understand  that  it  was 
only  one  example  of  a  solid  but  inexplicable 
fact,  ruling  all  human  affairs, — your  fireworks 
won  t  go  off  while  the  crowd  is  around. 

Our  brilliant  repartees  do  not  occur  to 
us  till  the  door  is  closed  upon  us  and  we 
are  alone  in  the  street,  or,  as  the  French 
would  say,  are  coming  down  the  stairs. 
Our  after-dinner  oratory,  that  sounded  so 
telling  as  we  delivered  it  before  the  looking- 
glass,  falls  strangely  flat  amidst  the  clinking 
of  the  glasses.  The  passionate  torrent  of 
words  we  meant  to  pour  into  her  ear  be- 
comes a  halting  rigmarole,  at  which  —  small 
blame  to  her  —  she  only  laughs. 

I  would,  gentle  Reader,  you  could  hear 
the  stories  that  I  meant  to  tell  you.  You 
judge  me,  of  course,  by  the  stories  of  mine 
that  you  have  read  —  by  this  sort  of  thing, 
perhaps ;  but  that  is  not  just  to  me.  The 
stories  I  have  not  told  you-,  that  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  one  day,  I  would  that  you  judge 
me  by  those.  They  are  so  beautiful ;  you 
will  say  so ;  over  them  you  will  laugh  and 
cry  with  me. 

They  come  into  my  brain  unbidden,  they 
clamour  to  be  written,  yet  when  I  take  my 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do     yc 

pen  In  hand  they  are  gone.  It  is  as  though 
they  were  shy  of  pubHcity,  as  though  they 
would  say  to  me:  "You  alone,  you  shall 
read  us,  but  you  must  not  write  us ;  we  are 
too  real,  too  true.  We  are  like  the  thoughts 
you  cannot  speak.  Perhaps  a  little  later, 
when  you  know  more  of  life,  then  you  shall 
tell  us." 

Next  to  these  in  merit  I  would  place, 
were  I  writing  a  critical  essay  on  myself, 
the  stories  I  have  begun  to  write  and  that 
remain  unfinished,  why  I  cannot  explain  to 
myself.  They  are  good  stories,  most  of 
them  ;  better  far  than  the  stories  I  have 
accomplished.  Another  time,  perhaps,  if 
you  care  to  listen,  I  will  tell  you  the  begin- 
ning of  one  or  two,  and  you  shall  judge. 
Strangely  enough,  for  I  have  always  re- 
garded myself  as  a  practical,  common-sensed 
man,  so  many  of  these  still-born  children 
of  my  mind  I  find,  on  looking  through  the 
cupboard  where  their  thin  bodies  lie,  are 
ghost  stories.  I  suppose  the  hope  of  ghosts 
is  with  us  all.  The  world  grows  somewhat 
interesting  to  us  heirs  of  all  the  ages.  Year 
by  year,  science  Vv'ith  broom  and  duster  tears 
down  the    moth-worn    tapestry,    forces   the 


76     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

doors  of  the  locked  chambers,  lets  light  into 
the  secret  stairways,  cleans  out  the  dun- 
geons, explores  the  hidden  passage,  —  find- 
ing everywhere  only  dust.  This  echoing 
old  castle,  the  world,  so  full  of  mystery  in 
the  days  when  we  were  children,  is  losing 
somewhat  its  charm  for  us  as  we  grow  older. 
The  king  sleeps  no  longer  in  the  hollow  of 
the  hills.  We  have  tunnelled  through  his 
mountain  chamber.  We  have  shivered  his 
beard  with  our  pick.  We  have  driven  the 
gods  from  Olympus.  No  wanderer  through 
the  moonlit  groves  now  fears  or  hopes  the 
sweet,  death-giving  gleam  of  Aphrodite's 
face.  Thor's  hammer  echoes  not  among 
the  peaks ;  't  is  but  the  thunder  of  the 
excursion  train.  We  have  swept  the  woods 
of  the  fairies.  We  have  filtered  the  sea  of 
its  nymphs.  Even  the  ghosts  are  leaving 
us,  chased  by  the  Psychical  Research 
Society. 

Perhaps,  of  all  the  others,  they  are  the 
least,  however,  to  be  regretted.  They  were 
dull  old  fellows,  clanking  their  rusty  chains 
and  groaning  and  sighing.      Let  them  go. 

And  yet  how  interesting  they  might  be, 
if  only  they  would  !     The  old  gentleman  in 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do     77 

the  coat  of  mail,  who  lived  in  King  John's 
reign,  who  was  murdered,  so  they  say,  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  very  wood  I  can  see 
from  my  window  as  I  write  —  stabbed  in 
the  back,  poor  gentleman,  as  he  was  riding 
home,  his  body  flung  into  the  moat  that  to 
this  day  is  called  Tor's  tomb.  Dry  enough 
it  is  now,  and  the  primroses  love  its  steep 
banks  ;  but  a  gloomy  enough  piace  in  those 
days,  no  doubt,  with  its  twenty  feet  of  stag- 
nant water.  Why  does  he  haunt  the  forest 
paths  at  night,  as  they  tell  me  he  does, 
frio-htenino-  the  children  out  of  their  wits, 
blanching  the  faces  and  stilling  the  laughter 
of  the  peasant  lads  and  lasses,  slouching 
home  from  the  village  dance?  Instead,  why 
does  he  not  come  up  here  and  talk  to  me  ? 
He  should  have  my  easy-chair  and  welcome, 
would  he  only  be  cheerful  and  companion- 
able. What  brave  tales  could  he  not  tell 
me.  He  fought  in  the  first  Crusade,  heard 
the  clarion  voice  of  Peter,  met  the  great 
Godfrey  face  to  face,  stood,  hand  on  sword- 
hilt,  at  Runnymede,  perhaps.  Better  than 
a  whole  library  of  historical  novels  would  an 
evening's  chat  be  with  such  a  ghost.  What 
has  he  done  with  his  eight  hundred  years  of 


78     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

death  ?  Where  has  he  been  ?  What  has  he 
seen  ?  Maybe  he  has  visited  Mars ;  has 
spoken  to  the  strange  spirits  who  can  live 
in  the  liquid  fires  of  Jupiter.  What  has  he 
learned  of  the  great  secret  ?  Has  he  found 
the  truth  ?  or  is  he,  even  as  I,  a  wanderer 
still  seeking  the  unknown  ? 

You,  poor,  pale  grey  nun,  they  tell  me 
that  of  midnights  one  may  see  your  white 
face  peering  from  the  ruined  belfry  window, 
hear  the  clash  of  sword  and  shield  among 
the  cedar-trees  beneath. 

It  was  very  sad,  I  quite  understand,  my 
dear  lady.  Your  lovers  both  were  killed, 
and  you  retired  to  a  convent.  Believe  me, 
I  am  sincerely  sorry  for  you,  but  why  waste 
every  night  renewing  the  whole  painful 
experience  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  for- 
gotten ?  Good  Heavens,  m.adam,  suppose 
we  living  folk  were  to  spend  our  lives  wail- 
ing and  wringing  our  hands  because  of  the 
wrongs  done  to  us  when  we  were  children  ? 
It  is  all  over  now.  Had  he  lived,  and  had 
you  married  him,  you  might  not  have  been 
happy.  I  do  not  wish  to  say  anything  un- 
kind, but  marriages  founded  upon  the  sin- 
cerest  mutual  love    have  sometimes  turned 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do      70 

out  unfortunately,  as  you  must  surely 
know. 

Do  take  my  advice.  Talk  the  matter 
over  with  the  young  men  themselves.  Per- 
suade them  to  shake  hands  and  be  friends. 
Come  in,  all  of  you,  out  of  the  cold,  and  let 
us  have  some  reasonable  talk. 

Why  seek  you  to  trouble  us,  yau  poor 
pale  ghosts  ?  Are  we  not  your  children  ? 
Be  our  wise  friends.  Tell  me,  how  loved 
the  young  men  in  your  young  days  ?  how 
ansv/ered  the  maidens  ?  Has  the  world 
changed  much,  do  you  think?  Had  you 
not  new  women  even  then  ?  —  girls  who  hated 
the  everlasting  tapestry  frame  and  spinning- 
wheel.  Your  father  s  servants,  were  they  so 
much  worse  off  than  the  freemen  who  live 
in  our  East-end  slums  and  sew  slippers  for 
fourteen  hours  a  day  at  a  wage  of  nine  shil- 
lings a  week .?  Do  you  think  Society  much 
improved  during  the  last  thousand  years  ? 
Is  it  worse?  is  it  better?  or  is  it,  on  the 
whole,  about  the  same,  save  that  we  call 
things  by  other  names  ?  Tell  me,  what 
have  you  learned  ? 

Yet  might  not  familiarity  breed  contempt, 
even  for  ghosts  ? 


8o     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

One  has  had  a  tiring  day's  shooting.  One 
is  looking  forward  to  one's  bed.  As  one 
opens  the  door,  however,  a  ghostly  laugh 
comes  from  behind  the  bed-curtains,  and 
one  groans  inwardly,  knowing  what  is  in 
store  for  one  :  a  two  or  three  hours'  talk 
with  rowdy  old  Sir  Lanval,  —  he  of  the 
lance.  We  know  all  his  tales  by  heart, 
and  he  will  shout  them.  Suppose  our  aunt, 
from  whom  we  have  expectations,  and  who 
sleeps  in  the  next  room,  should  wake  and 
overhear !  They  were  fit  and  proper 
enough  stories,  no  doubt,  for  the  Round 
Table,  but  we  feel  sure  our  aunt  would 
not  appreciate  them,  —  that  story  about 
Sir  Agravain  and  the  cooper's  wife  !  and  he 
always  will  tell  that  story. 

Or  imagine  the  maid  entering  after  dinner 
to  say,  — 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  sir,  here  is  the  veiled 
lady." 

"What,  again?  "  says  your  wife,  looking 
up  from  her  work. 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  shall  I  show  her  up  into 
the  bedroom  ?  " 

"  You  had  better  ask  your  master,"  is  the 
reply.     The  tone  is    suggestive  of  an    un- 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do     8 1 

pleasant  five  minutes  so  soon  as  the  girl 
shall  have  withdrawn ;  but  what  are  you  to 
do? 

"Yes,  yes,  show  her  up,"  you  say,  and  the 
girl  goes  out,  closing  the  door. 

Your  wife  gathers  her  work  together,  and 
rises. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  you  ask. 

"  To  sleep  with  the  children,"  is  the  frigid 
answer. 

"  It  will  look  so  rude,"  you  urge.  "  We 
must  be  civil  to  the  poor  thing ;  and  you  see 
it  really  is  her  room,  as  one  might  say.  She 
has  always  haunted  it." 

"  It  is  very  curious,"  returns  the  wife  of 
your  bosom,  still  more  icily,  "  that  she  never 
haunts  it  except  when  you  are  down  here. 
Where  she  goes  when  you  are  in  town  I  'm 
sure  I  don't  know." 

This  is  unjust.  You  cannot  restrain  your 
indignation. 

"What  nonsense  you  talk,  Elizabeth  ! " 
you  reply  ;  "  I  am  only  barely  polite  to  her." 

"  Some  men  have  such  curious  notions  of 
politeness,"  returns  Elizabeth.  "  But  pray 
do  not  let  us  quarrel.  I  am  only  anxious 
not  to  disturb  you.     Two  are  company,  you 


82     Exceptional  Merit  Attaching 

know.  I  don't  choose  to  be  the  third,  that 's 
all."     With  which  she  goes  out. 

And  the  veiled  lady  is  still  waiting  for  you 
upstairs.  You  wonder  how  long  she  will  stop, 
also  what  will  happen  after  she  is  gone. 

I  fear  there  is  no  room  for  you  ghosts  in 
this  our  world.  You  remember  how  they 
came  to  Hiawatha,  —  the  ghosts  of  the  de- 
parted loved  ones.  He  had  prayed  to  them 
that  they  would  come  back  to  him  to  comfort 
him,  so  one  day  they  crept  into  his  wigwam, 
sat  in  silence  round  his  fireside,  chilled  the 
air  for  Hiawatha,  froze  the  smiles  of  Laughing 
Water. 

There  is  no  room  for  you,  oh,  you  poor, 
pale  ghosts,  in  this  our  world.  Do  not 
trouble  us.  Let  us  forget.  You  stout 
elderly  matron,  your  thin  locks  turning  grey, 
your  eyes  grown  weak,  your  chin  more  ample, 
your  voice  harsh  with  much  scolding  and 
complaining,  needful,  alas !  to  household 
management,  I  pray  you  leave  me.  I  loved 
you  while  you  lived.  How  sweet,  how 
beautiful  you  were !  I  see  you  now  in  your 
white  frock  among  the  apple-blossoms.  But 
you  are  dead,  and  your  ghost  disturbs  my 
dreams      I  would  it  haunted  me  not. 


to  Things  we  Meant  to  Do     83 

You  dull  old  fellow,  looking  out  at  me 
from  the  glass  at  which  I  shave,  why  do  you 
haunt  me  ?  You  are  the  ghost  of  a  bright 
lad  I  once  knew  well.  He  might  have  done 
much,  had  he  lived.  I  always  had  faith  in 
him.  Why  do  you  haunt  me?  I  would 
rather  think  of  him  as  I  remember  him.  I 
never  imagined  he  would  make  such  a  poor 
ghost. 


ON   THE   PREPARATION    AND 

EMPLOYMENT   OF   LOVE 

PHILTRES 


OCCASIONALLY  a  friend  wili  ask  me 
some  such  question  as  this.  Do  you 
prefer  dark  women  or  fair  ?  Another  will 
say,  Do  you  like  tall  women  or  short?  A 
third,  Do  you  think  light-hearted  women,  or 
serious,  the  more  agreeable  company  ?  I 
find  myself  in  the  position  that,  once  upon 
a  time,  overtook  a  certain  charming  young 
lady  of  taste  who  was  asked  by  an  anxious 
parent,  the  years  mounting,  and  the  family 
expenditure  not  decreasing,  which  of  the 
numerous  and  eligible  young  men,  then  pay- 
ing court  to  her,  she  iiked  the  best.  Sne 
repHed,  that  was  her  difficulty.  She  could 
not  make  up  her  mind  which  she  liked  the 
best.  They  were  all  so  nice.  She  could 
not  possibly  select  one  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  the  others.     What  she  would  Lave  Lked 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres  85 

would  have  been  to  marry  the  lot,  but  that, 
she  presumed,  was  impracticable. 

I  feel  I  resemble  that  young  lady,  not  so 
much,  perhaps,  in  charm  and  beauty  as  in- 
decision of  mind,  when  questions  such  as 
the  above  are  put  to  me.  It  is  as  if  one 
were  asked  one's  favourite  food.  There  are 
times  when  one  fancies  an  egg  with  one's 
tea.  On  other  occasions  one  dreams  of  a 
kipper.  To-day  one  clamours  for  lobsters. 
To-morrow  one  feels  one  never  wishes  to 
see  a  lobster  again;  one  determines  to  settle 
down  for  a  time  to  a  diet  of  bread  and 
milk  and  rice-pudding.  Asked  suddenly  to 
say  whether  I  preferred  ices  to  soup,  or  beef- 
steaks to  caviare,  I  s-  ouid  be  nonplussed. 

I  like  tall  women  an^  s.  ort,  dark  women 
and  fair,  merry  women  and  grave. 

Do  not  blame  me,  Ladies,  the  fault  lies 
with  you.  Every  right-thinking  man  is  an 
unive'^sal  lover ;  how  could  it  be  otherwise  ? 
You  are  so  diverse,  yet  each  so  charming  of 
your  kind ;  and  a  man's  heart  is  large.  You 
have  no  idea,  fair  Reader,  how  large  a  man's 
heart  is :  that  is  his  trouble  —  sometimes 
yours. 

May  I  not  admire  the  daring  tulip,  be- 


86     On  the  Preparation  and 

cause  I  love  also  the  modest  lily?  May  1 
not  press  a  kiss  upon  the  sweet  violet,  be- 
cause the  scent  of  the  queenly  rose  is  pre- 
cious to  me  ? 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  hear  the  Rose  reply. 
"  If  you  can  see  anything  in  her,  you  shall 
have  nothing  to  do  with  me." 

"  If  you  care  for  that  bold  creature,"  says 
the  Lily,  trembling,  "  you  are  not  the  man 
I  took  you  for.     Good-bye." 

"  Go  to  your  baby-faced  Violet,"  cries  the 
Tulip,  with  a  toss  of  her  haughty  head. 
"You  are  just  fitted  for  each  other." 

And  when  I  return  to  the  Lily,  she  tells 
me  that  she  cannot  trust  me.  She  has 
watched  me  with  those  others.  She  knows 
me  for  a  gadabout.  Her  gentle  face  is  ful! 
of  pain. 

So  I  must  live  unloved  merely  because  I 
love  too  much. 

My  wonder  :s  that  young  men  ever  marry. 
The  difficulty  of  selection  must  be  appalling. 
I  walked  the  other  evening  in  Hyde  Park. 
The  band  of  the  Life  Guards  played  heart- 
lifting  music,  and  the  vast  crowd  were  bask- 
ing in  a  sweet  enjoyment  such  as  rarely  woos 
the  English  toiler.     I  strolled  among  them. 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres  87 

and  my  attention  was  chiefly  drawn  towards 
the  women.  The  great  majority  of  them 
were,  I  suppose,  shop  girls,  milliners,  and 
others  belonging  to  the  lower  middle-class. 
They  had  put  on  their  best  frocks,  their  bon- 
niest hats,  their  newest  gloves.  They  sat  or 
walked  in  twos  and  threes,  chattering  and 
preening,  as  happy  as  young  sparrows  on  a 
clothes  line.  And  what  a  handsome  crowd 
they  made !  I  have  seen  German  crowds,  I 
have  seen  French  crowds,  I  have  seen  Italian 
crowds ;  but  nowhere  do  you  find  such  a 
proportion  of  pretty  women  as  among  the 
English  middle-class.  Three  women  out  of 
every  four  were  worth  looking  at,  every  other 
woman  was  pretty,  while  every  fourth,  one 
might  say  without  exaggeration,  was  beauti- 
ful. As  I  passed  to  and  fro  the  idea  occurred 
to  me :  suppose  I  were  an  unprejudiced 
young  bachelor,  free  from  predilection,  look- 
ing for  a  wife;  and  let  mc  suppose  —  it  is 
only  a  fancy  —  that  all  these  girls  were 
ready  and  willing  to  accept  me.  I  have 
only  to  choose  !  I  grew  bewildered.  There 
wevQ  fair  girls,  to  look  at  whom  was  fatal ; 
dark  girls  that  set  one's  heart  aflame  ;  girls 
with  red   gold   hair   and   grave   grey  eyes. 


88     On  the  Preparation  and 

whom  one  would  follow  to  the  confines  of 
the  universe ;  baby-faced  girls  that  one 
longed  to  love  and  cherish  ;  girls  with  noble 
faces,  whom  a  man  might  worship  ;  laughing 
girls,  with  whom  one  could  dance  through 
life  gaily ;  serious  girls,  with  whom  life 
would  be  sweet  and  good  ;  domestic-looking 
girls  —  one  felt  such  would  make  delightful 
wives ;  they  would  cook  and  sew  and  make 
of  home  a  pleasant,  peaceful  place.  Then 
wicked-iooking  girls  came  by,  at  the  stab  of 
whose  bold  eyes  all  orthodox  thoughts  were 
put  to  a  flight,  whose  laughter  turned  the 
world  into  a  mad  carnival ;  girls  one  could 
mould  ;  girls  from  whom  one  could  learn ; 
sad  girls  one  wanted  to  comfort ;  merry  girls 
who  would  cheer  one  ;  little  girls,  big  girls, 
queenly  girls,  fairy-like  girls. 

Suppose  a  young  man  had  to  select  his 
wife  in  this  fashion  from  some  twenty  or 
thirty  thousand  ;  or  that  a  girl  were  suddenly 
confronted  with  eighteen  thousand  eligible 
young  bachelors,  and  told  to  take  the  one 
she  wanted  and  be  quick  about  it?  Neither 
boy  nor  girl  would  ever  marry.  Fate  is 
kinder  to  us.  She  understands,  and  assists 
us.     In  the  hall  of  a  Paris  hotel  I  once  over- 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres   89 

heard  one  lady  asking  another  to  recommend 
her  a  milliner's  shop. 

"  Go  to  the  Maison  Nouvelle,"  advised 
the  questioned  lady  with  enthusiasm.  "  They 
have  the  largest  selection  there  of  any  place 
in  Paris." 

"  I  know  they  have,"  replied  the  first  lady  ; 
"  that  is  just  why  I  don't  mean  to  go  there. 
It  confuses  me.  If  I  see  six  bonnets  I  can 
tell  the  one  I  want  in  five  minutes.  If  I  see 
six  hundred  I  come  away  without  any  bonnet 
at  all.     Don't  you  know  a  little  shop?  " 

Fate  takes  the  young  man  or  the  young 
woman  aside. 

"  Come  into  this  village,  my  dear,"  says 
Fate ;  "  into  this  bye-street  of  this  salubrious 
suburb,  into  this  social  circle,  into  this  church, 
into  this  chapel.  Now,  my  dear  boy,  out  of 
these  seventeen  young  ladies,  which  will  yoV' 
have  ?  Out  of  these  thirteen  young  men 
which  would  you  like  for  your  very  own,  my 
dear  ?  " 

"  No,  miss,  I  am  sorry,  but  I  am  not  able 
to  show  you  our  upstairs  department  to-day, 
the  lift  is  not  v/orking.  But  I  am  sure  we 
shall  be  able  to  find  something  in  this  room 
to  suit  yoii.  Just  look  round,  my  dear, 
perhaps  you  will  see  something." 


90     On  the  Preparation  and 

"  No,  sir,  I  cannot  show  you  the  stock  in 
the  next  room  ;  we  never  take  that  out  except 
for  our  very  special  customers.  We  keep 
our  most  expensive  goods  in  that  room. 
(Draw  that  curtain,  Miss  Circumstance, 
please.  I  have  told  you  of  that  before.) 
Now,  sir,  would  n't  you  like  this  one  ?  This 
colour  is  quite  the  rage  this  season  ;  we  are 
getting  rid  of  quite  a  lot  of  these." 

"  No,  sir  !  Well,  of  course,  it  would  not 
do  for  every  one's  taste  to  be  the  same. 
Perhaps  something  dark  would  suit  you  bet- 
ter. Bring  out  those  two  brunettes,  Miss 
Circumstance.  Charming  girls  both  of  them, 
don't  you  think  so,  sir?  I  should  say  the 
taller  one  for  you,  sir.  Just  one  moment, 
sir,  allow  me.  Now,  what  do  you  think  of 
that,  sir?  might  have  been  made  to  fit  you, 
I  'm  sure.  Tou  prefer  the  shorter  one.  Cer- 
tainly, sir,  no  difference  to  us  at  all.  Both 
are  the  same  price.  There's  nothing  like 
having  one's  own  fancy,  I  always  say.  No^ 
sir,  I  cannot  put  her  aside  for  you  ;  we  never 
do  that.  Indeed,  there's  rather  a  run  on 
brunettes  just  at  present.  I  had  a  gentle- 
man in  only  this  morning,  looking  at  this 
particular  one,  and  he  is  going  to  call  again 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres   91 

to-night.  Indeed,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  — 
Oh,  of  course,  sir,  if  you  like  to  settle  on 
this  one  now,  that  ends  the  matter.  (Put 
those  others  away.  Miss  Circumstance, 
please,  and  mark  this  one  sold.)  I  feel  sure 
you  'il  like  her,  sir,  when  you  get  her  home. 
Thank  you^  sir.     Good-morning ! " 

"  Now,  miss,  have  you  seen  anything  you 
fancy  ?  2>j,  miss,  this  is  all  we  have  at 
anything  near  your  price.  (Shut  those  other 
cupboards.  Miss  Circumstance ;  never  show 
more  stock  than  you  are  obliged  to  ;  it  only 
confuses  customers.  How  often  am  I  to 
tell  you  that  ?)  Tes^  miss,  you  are  quite 
right,  there  is  a  slight  blemish.  They  all 
have  some  slight  flaw.  The  makers  say 
they  can't  help  it;  it's  in  the  material. 
It's  not  once  in  a  season  we  get  a  perfect 
specimen  ;  and  when  we  do  ladies  don't  seem 
to  care  for  it.  Most  of  our  customers  pre- 
fer a  little  faultiness.  They  say  it  gives 
character.  Now  look  at  this,  miss.  This 
sort  of  thing  wears  very  well,  warm  and 
quiet.  Ton  d  like  one  with  more  colour  in  it  ? 
Certainly.  Miss  Circumstance,  reach  me 
down  the  art  patterns.  No^  miss,  we  don't 
guarantee  any  of  them    over    the    year,    so 


92     On  the  Preparation  and 

much  depends  on  how  you  use  them.  Oh^ 
yes,  miss,  they  '11  stand  a  fair  amount  of 
wear.  People  do  tell  you  the  quieter  pat- 
terns last  longer ;  but  my  experience  is  that 
one  is  much  the  same  as  another.  There  's 
really  no  telling  any  of  them  until  you  come 
to  try  them.  We  never  recommend  one 
more  than  another.  There  's  a  lot  of  chance 
about  these  goods,  it's  in  the  nature  of  them. 
What  I  always  say  to  ladies  is  :  *  Please  your- 
self, it 's  you  who  have  got  to  wear  it ;  and 
it 's  no  good  having  an  article  you  start  by 
not  liking.  Tes,  miss,  it  is  pretty  and  it  looks 
well  against  you :  it  does  indeed.  Thank 
you,  miss.  Put  that  one  aside.  Miss  Cir- 
cumstance, please.  See  that  it  does  n't  get 
mixed  up  with  the  unsold  stock." 

It  is  a  useful  philtre,  the  juice  of  that 
small  western  flower  that  Oberon  drops 
upon  our  eyelids  as  we  sleep.  It  solves 
all  difficulties  in  a  trice.  Why,  of  course 
Helena  is  the  fairer.  Compare  her  with 
Hermia !  Compare  the  raven  with  the 
dove  1  How  could  we  ever  have  doubted 
for  a  moment  ?  Bottom  is  an  angel ;  Bottom 
is  as  wise  as  he  is  handsome.  Oh,  Oberon, 
we  thank  you  for  that  drug.     Matilda  Jane 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres   93 

is  a  goddess ;  Matilda  Jane  is  a  queen  ;  no 
woman  ever  born  of  Eve  was  like  Matilda 
Jane.  The  little  pimple  on  her  nose,  her 
little,  sweet,  tip-tilted  nose,  —  how  beautiful 
it  is  1  Her  bright  eyes  flash  with  temper 
now  and  then  ;  how  piquant  is  a  temper  in  a 
woman  !  William  is  a  dear  old  stupid ;  how 
lovable  stupid  men  can  be  !  especially  when 
wise  enough  to  love  us.  William  does  not 
shine  in  conversation  ;  how  we  hate  a  magpie 
of  a  man  !  William's  chin  is  what  is  called 
receding,  just  the  sort  of  chin  a  beard  looks 
well  on.  Bless  you,  Oberon  darling,  for 
that  drug  ;  rub  it  on  our  eyelids  once  again. 
Better  let  us  have  a  bottle,  Oberon,  to  keep 
by  us. 

Oberon,  Oberon,  what  are  you  thinking 
of?  You  have  given  the  bottle  to  Puck. 
Take  It  away  from  him,  quick.  Lord  help 
us  all  if  that  imp  has  the  bottle !  Lord 
save  us  from  Puck  while  we  sleep  ! 

Or  may  we,  fairy  Oberon,  regard  your 
lotion  as  an  eye-opener,  rather  than  as  an 
eye-closer  ?  You  remember  the  story  the 
storks  told  the  children  of  the  little  girl 
ivho  was  a  toad  by  day,  only  her  sweet  dark 
eyes  being  left  to  her.     But  at  night,  when 


94     O^  the  Preparation  and 

the  Prince  clasped  her  close  to  his  breast, 
lo  !  again  she  became  the  king's  daughter, 
fairest  and  fondest  of  women.  There  be 
many  royal  ladies  in  Marshland,  with  bad 
complexion  and  thin  straight  hair,  and  the 
silly  princes  sneer  and  ride  a;way  to  woo 
some  kitchen  wench  decked  out  in  queen's 
apparel.  Lucky  the  prince  upon  whose 
eyelids  Oberon  has  dropped  the  magic 
philtre. 

In  the  gallery  of  a  minor  Continental 
town  I  have  forgotten,  hangs  a  picture  that 
lives  with  me.  The  painting  I  cannot  re- 
call, whether  good  or  bad ;  artists  must  for- 
give me  for  remembering  only  the  subject. 
It  shows  a  man,  crucified  by  the  roadside. 
No  martyr  he.  If  ever  a  man  deserved 
hanging  it  was  this  one.  So  much  the  artist 
has  made  clear.  The  face,  even  under  its 
mask  of  agony,  is  an  evil,  treacherous  face. 
A  peasant  girl  clings  to  the  cross ;  she 
stands  tiptoe  upon  a  patient  donkev,  strain- 
ing her  face  upward  for  the  half-dead  man 
to  stoop  and  kiss  her  lips. 

Thief,  coward,  blackguard,  they  are 
stamped  upon  his  face,  but  under  the  face, 
under  the  evil  outside  ?     Is  there  no  remnant 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres   95 

of  manhood,  —  nothing  tender,  nothing  true  ? 
A  woman  has  crept  to  the  cross  to  kiss  him  : 
no  evidence  in  his  favour,  my  Lord?  Love 
is  bhnd  —  aye,  to  our  faults.  Heaven  help 
us  all ;  Love's  eyes  would  be  sore  indeed  if 
it  were  not  so.  But  for  the  good  that  is  in 
us  her  eyes  are  keen.  You,  crucified  "black- 
guard, stand  forth.  A  hundred  witnesses 
have  given  their  evidence  against  you.  Are 
there  none  to  give  evidence  for  him  ?  A 
woman,  great  Judge,  who  loved  him.  Let 
her  speak. 

But  I  am  wandering  far  from  Hyde  Park 
and  its  show  of  girls. 

They  passed  and  repassed  me,  laughing, 
smiHng,  talking.  Their  eyes  were  bright 
with  merry  thoughts  ;  their  voices  soft  and 
musical.  They  were  pleased,  and  they 
wanted  to  please.  Some  were  married ; 
some  had  evidently  reasonable  expectations 
of  being  married ;  the  rest  hoped  to  be. 
And  we,  myself,  and  some  ten  thousand 
other  young  men.  I  repeat  it,  —  myself  and 
some  ten  thousand  other  young  men  ;  for 
who  among  us  ever  thinks  of  himself  but 
as  a  young  man  .''  It  is  the  world  that  ages, 
not  we.     The  children  cease  their  playing 


96     On  the  Preparation  and 

and  grow  grave,  the  lasses'  eyes  are  dimmer. 
The  hills  are  a  little  steeper,  the  milestones, 
surely,  farther  apart.  The  songs  the  young 
men  sing  are  less  merry  than  the  songs  we 
used  to  sing.  The  days  have  grown  a  little 
colder,  the  wind  a  little  keener.  The  wine 
has  lost  its  flavour  somewhat ;  the  new 
humour  is  not  like  the  old.  The  other 
boys  are  becoming  dull  and  prosy  ;  but  we 
are  not  changed.  It  is  the  world  that  is 
growing  old.  Therefore  I  brave  your 
thoughtless  laughter,  youthful  Reader,  and 
repeat  that  we,  myself  and  some  ten  thou- 
sand other  young  men,  walked  among  these 
sweet  girls,  and,  using  our  boyish  eyes 
were  fascinated,  charmed,  and  captivated. 
How  delightful  to  spend  our  lives  with  them, 
to  do  little  services  for  them  that  would  call 
up  these  bright  smiles  !  How  pleasant  to 
jest  with  them  and  hear  their  flute-like 
laughter,  to  console  them  and  read  their 
grateful  eyes !  Really,  life  is  a  pleasant 
thing,  and  the  idea  of  marriage  undoubtedly 
originated  in  the  brain  of  a  kindly  Provi- 
dence. 

We  smiled   back  at  them,  and  we  made 
way  for  them ;  we  rose  from  our  chairs  with 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres   97 

a  polite  "  Allow  me,  miss,"  "  Don't  mention 
it ;  I  prefer  standing."  "  It  is  a  delightful 
evening,  is  it  not?"  And  perhaps  —  for 
what  harm  was  there?  —  we  dropped  into 
conversation  with  these  chance  fellow-pas- 
sengers upon  the  stream  of  life.  .There 
were  those  among  us  —  bold  daring  spirits 
—  who  even  went  to  the  length  of  mild 
flirtation.  Some  of  us  knew  some  of  them, 
and  in  such  happy  case  there  followed  inter- 
change of  pretty  pleasantries.  Your  Eng- 
lish middle-class  young  man  and  woman 
are  not  adepts  at  the  game  of  flirtation.  I 
will  confess  that  our  methods  were,  perhaps, 
elephantine,  that  we  may  have  grown  a  trifle 
noisy  as  the  evening  wore  on.  But  we 
meant  no  evil ;  we  did  but  our  best  to  en- 
joy ourselves,  to  give  enjoyment,  to  make 
the  too  brief  time  pass  gaily. 

And  then  my  thoughts  travelled  to  small 
homes  in  distant  suburbs,  and  these  bright 
lads  and  lasses  round  me  came  to  look  older 
and  more  careworn.  But  what  of  that  ?  Are 
not  old  faces  sweet  when  looked  at  by  old 
eyes  a  little  dimmed  by  love,  and  are  not 
care  and  toil  but  the  parents  of  peace  and 
joy? 

f 


98     On  the  Preparatioxi  and 

But  as  I  drew  nearer,  I  saw  that  many  of 
the  faces  were  seared  with  sour  and  angry 
looks,  and  the  voices  that  rose  round  me 
sounded  surly  and  captious.  The  pretty 
compliment  and  praise  had  changed  to  sneers 
and  scoldings.  The  dimpled  smile  had 
wrinkled  to  a  frown.  There  seemed  so  little 
desire  to  please,  so  great  a  determination  not 
to  be  pleased. 

And  the  flirtations !  Ah  me,  they  had 
forgotten  how  to  flirt  1  Oh,  the  pity  of  it ! 
All  the  jests  were  bitter,  all  the  little  services 
were  given  grudgingly.  The  air  seemed  to 
have  grown  chilly.  A  darkness  had  come 
over  all  things. 

And  then  I  awoke  to  reality,  and  found  I 
had  been  sitting  in  my  chair  longer  than  I 
had  intended.  The  band-stand  was  empty, 
the  sun  had  set ;  I  rose  and  made  my  way 
home  through  the  scattered  crowd. 

Nature  is  so  callous.  The  Dame  irritates 
one  at  times  by  her  devotion  to  her  one  idea, 
the  propagation  of  the  species. 

"  Multiply  and  be  fruitful ;  let  my  world 
be  ever  more  and  more  peopled." 

For  this  she  trains  and  fashions  her  young 
girls,  models  them  with  cunning  hand,  paints 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres   99 

them  with  her  wonderful  red  and  white, 
crowns  them  with  her  glorious  hair,  teaches 
them  to  smile  and  laugh,  trains  their  voices 
into  music,  sends  them  out  into  the  world  to 
captivate,  to  enslave  us. 

"  See  how  beautiful  she  is,  my  lad,"  says 
the  cunning  old  woman.  "  Take  her ; 
build  your  little  nest  with  her  in  your  pretty 
suburb ;  work  for  her  and  live  for  her ; 
enable  her  to  keep  the  little  ones  that  I  will 
send." 

And  to  her,  old  hundred-breasted  Artemis 
whispers,  "Is  he  not  a  bonny  lad?  See 
how  he  loves  you,  how  devoted  he  is  to  you  ! 
He  will  work  for  you  and  make  you  happy ; 
he  will  build  your  home  for  you.  You  will 
be  the  mother  of  his  children." 

So  we  take  each  other  by  the  hand,  full  of 
hope  and  love,  and  from  that  hour  Mother 
Nature  has  done  with  us.  Let  the  wrinkles 
come ;  let  our  voices  grow  harsh  ;  let  the 
fire  she  hghted  in  our  hearts  die  out ;  let  the 
foolish  selfishness  we  both  thought  we  had 
put  behind  us  for  ever  creep  back  to  us> 
bringing  unkindness  and  indifference,  angry 
thoughts  and  cruel  words  into  our  lives. 
What    cares    she  ?    She  has  caught  us,   and 


lOO     On  the  Preparation  and 

chained  us  to  her  work.  She  is  our  uni- 
versal  mother-in-law.  She  has  done  the 
match-making  ;  for  the  rest,  she  leaves  it 
to  ourselves.  We  can  love  or  we  can  fight ; 
it  is  all  one  to  her,  confound  her. 

I  wonder  sometimes  if  good  temper  might 
not  be  taught.  In  business  we  use  no  harsh 
language,  say  no  unkind  things  to  one 
another.  The  shopkeeper,  leaning  across 
the  counter,  is  all  smiles  and  affability ;  he 
might  put  up  his  shutters  were  he  otherwise. 
The  commercial  gent,  no  doubt,  thinks  the 
ponderous  shop- walker  an  ass,  but  refrains 
from  telling  him  so.  Hasty  tempers  are 
banished  from  the  City.  Can  we  not  see 
that  it  is  just  as  much  to  our  interest 
to  banish  them  from  Tooting  and  Hamp- 
stead  ^ 

The  young  man  who  sat  in  the  chair  next 
to  me,  how  carefully  he  wrapped  the  cloak 
round  the  shoulders  of  the  little  milliner 
beside  him  !  And  when  she  said  she  was 
tired  of  sitting  still,  how  readily  he  sprang 
from  his  chair  to  walk  with  her,  though  it 
was  evident  he  was  very  comfortable  where 
he  was.  And  she  !  She  had  laughed  at  his 
jokes  ;  they  were  not  very  clever  jokes,  they 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres^  i  o  i 

were  not  very  new.  She  had  probably  read 
them  herself  months  before  in  her  own  par- 
ticular weekly  journal.  Yet  the  harmless 
humbug  made  him  happy.  I  wonder  if  ten 
years  hence  she  will  laugh  at  such  old  hu- 
mour, if  ten  years  hence  he  will  take  such 
clumsy  pains  to  put  her  cape  about  her. 
Experience  shakes  her  head,  and  is  amused 
at  my  question. 

I  would  have  evening  classes  for  the 
teaching  of  temper  to  married  couples,  only 
I  fear  the  institution  would  languish  for  lack 
of  pupils.  The  husbands  would  recommend 
their  wives  to  attend,  generously  offering  to 
pay  the  fee  as  a  birthday  present.  The  wife 
would  be  indignant  at  the  suggestion  of  good 
money  being  thus  wasted.  "  No,  John, 
dear,"  she  would  unselfishly  reply,  "  you 
need  the  lessons  more  than  I  do.  It  would 
be  a  shame  for  me  to  take  them  away  from 
you,"  and  they  would  wrangle  upon  the  sub- 
ject for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Oh  !  the  folly  of  it.  We  pack  our  hamper 
for  life  's  picnic  with  such  pains.  We  spend 
so  much,  we  work  so  hard.  We  make 
choice  pies  ;  we  cook  prime  joints;  we  pre- 
pare so  carefully  the  mayonnaise;  we  mix  with 


iq.2    .On  the  Preparation  and 

loving  hands  the  salad  ;  we  cram  the  basket 
to  the  lid  with  every  delicacy  we  can  think  of. 
Everything  to  make  the  picnic  a  success  is 
there  —  except  the  salt.  Ah!  woe  is  me, 
we  forget  the  salt.  We  slave  at  our  desks, 
in  our  workshops,  to  make  a  home  for  those 
we  love ;  we  give  up  our  pleasures,  we  give 
up  our  rest.  We  toil  in  our  kitchen  from 
morning  till  night,  and  we  render  the  whole 
feast  tasteless  for  want  of  a  ha'porth  of  salt, 
—  for  want  of  a  soup(^on  of  amiability,  for 
want  of  a  handful  of  kindly  words,  a  touch 
of  caress,  a  pinch  of  courtesy. 

Who  does  not  know  that  estimable  house- 
wife who  works  from  eight  till  twelve  to  keep 
the  house  in  what  she  calls  order  ?  She  is 
so  good  a  woman,  so  untiring,  so  unselfish,  so 
conscientious,  so  irritating.  Her  rooms  are 
so  clean,  her  servants  so  well  managed,  her 
children  so  well  dressed,  her  dinners  so  well 
cooked ;  the  whole  house  so  uninviting. 
Everything  about  her  is  in  apple-pie  order, 
and  everybody  wretched. 

My  good  Madam,  you  polish  your  tables, 
you  scour  your  kettles,  but  the  most  valuable 
piece  of  furniture  in  the  whole  house  you  are 
letting  go  to  rack  and  ruin  for  want  of  a  little 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres   103 

pains.  You  will  find  it  in  your  own  room, 
my  dear  Lady,  in  front  of  your  own  mirror. 
It  is  getting  shabby  and  dingy,  old-looking 
before  its  time ;  the  polish  is  rubbed  off  it. 
Madam,  it  is  losing  its  brightness  and  charm. 
Do  you  remember  when  he  first  brought  it 
home,  how  proud  he  was  of  it  ?  Do  you 
think  you  have  used  it  well,  knowing  how  he 
valued  it  ?  A  little  less  care  of  your  pots  and 
your  pans,  Madam,  a  little  more  of  yourself 
were  wiser.  Polish  yourself  up,  Madam  ; 
you  had  a  pretty  wit  once,  a  pleasant  laugh, 
a  conversation  that  was  not  confined  ex- 
clusively to  the  short-comings  of  servants, 
the  wrong-doings  of  tradesmen.  My  dear 
Madam,  we  do  not  live  on  spotless  linen, 
and  crumbless  carpets.  Hunt  out  that 
bundle  of  old  letters  you  keep  tied  up  in 
faded  ribbon  at  the  back  of  your  bureau- 
drawer  —  a  pity  you  don't  read  them  oftener. 
He  did  not  enthuse  about  your  cuffs  and 
collars,  gush  over  the  neatness  of  your  darn- 
ing. It  was  your  tangled  hair  he  raved  about, 
your  sunny  smile  (we  have  not  seen  it  for 
some  years.  Madam,  —  the  fault  of  the  Cook 
and  the  Butcher,  I  presume),  your  little  hands^ 
your  rosebud  mouth,  —  it  has  lost  its  shape, 


I04    On  the  Preparation  and 

Madam,  of  late.  Try  a  little  less  scolding 
of  Mary  Ann,  and  practise  a  laugh  once  a 
day :  you  might  get  back  the  dainty  curves. 
It  would  be  worth  trying.  It  was  a  pretty 
mouth  once. 

Who  invented  that  mischievous  falsehood 
that  the  way  to  a  man's  heart  was  through 
his  stomach  ?  How  many  a  silly  woman,  tak- 
ing it  for  truth,  has  let  love  sHp  out  of  the 
parlour,  while  she  was  busy  in  the  kitchen. 
Of  course,  if  you  were  foolish  enough  to 
marry  a  pig,  I  suppose  you  must  be  content 
to  devote  your  life  to  the  preparation  of 
hog's-wash.  But  are  you  sure  that  he  is  a 
pig?  If  by  any  chance  he  be  not?  —  then. 
Madam,  you  are  making  a  grievous  mistake. 
My  dear  Lady,  you  are  too  modest.  If  I 
may  say  so  without  making  you  unduly  con- 
ceited, even  at  the  dinner-table  itself,  you 
are  of  much  more  importance  than  the  mut- 
ton. Courage,  Madam,  be  not  afraid  to  tilt  a 
lance  even  with  your  own  cook.  You  can  be 
more  piquant  than  the  sauced  la  Tariare^moYQ 
soothing  surely  than  the  melted  butter. 
There  was  a  time  when  he  would  not  have 
known  whether  he  was  eating  beef  or  pork 
with  you  the  other  side  of  the  table.     Whose 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres   1 05 

fault  is  It  ?  Don't  think  so  poorly  of  us. 
We  are  not  ascetics,  neither  are  we  all 
gourmets  :  most  of  us  plain  men,  fond  of  our 
dinner,  as  a  healthy  man  should  be,  but 
fonder  still  of  our  sweethearts  and  wives, 
let  us  hope.  Try  us.  A  moderately-cooked 
dinner  —  let  us  even  say  a  not-toD-well- 
cooked  dinner,  with  you  looking  your  best, 
laughing  and  talking  gaily  and  cleverly, — as 
you  can,  you  know, —  makes  a  pleasanter 
meal  for  us,  after  the  day's  work  is  done, 
than  that  same  dinner,  cooked  to  perfection, 
with  you  silent,  jaded,  and  anxious,  your 
pretty  hair  untidy,  your  pretty  face  wrinkled 
with  care  concerning  the  sole,  with  anxiety 
regarding  the  omelette. 

My  poor  Martha,  be  not  troubled  about 
so  many  things.  Tou  are  the  one  thing 
needful  —  if  the  bricks  and  mortar  are  to  be 
a  home.  See  to  it  that  you  are  well  served 
up,  t\i?it  you  are  done  to  perfection,  that  you 
are  tender  and  satisfying,  that  you  are  worth 
sitting  down  to.  We  wanted  a  wife,  a  com- 
rade, a  friend  ;  not  a  cook  and  a  nurse  on 
the  cheap. 

But  of  what  use  is  it  to  talk?  the  world 
will  ever    follow   its    own    folly.     When  I 


Io6     On  the  Preparation  and 

think  of  all  the  good  advice  that  I  have  given 
it,  and  of  the  small  result  achieved,  I  con- 
fess I  grow  discouraged.  I  was  giving  good 
advice  to  a  lady  only  the  other  day.  I  was 
instructing  her  as  to  the  proper  treatment 
of  aunts.  She  was  sucking  a  lead-pencil, 
a  thing  I  am  always  telling  her  not  to 
do.  She  took  it  out  of  her  mouth  to 
speak. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  how  everybody 
ought  to  do  everything,"  she  said. 

There  are  times  when  it  is  necessary  to 
sacrifice  one's  modesty  to  one's  duty. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  I  replied. 

"  And  does  mamma  know  how  everybody 
ought  to  do  everything  ?  "  was  the  second 
question. 

My  conviction  on  this  point  was  by  no 
means  so  strong,  but  for  domestic  reasons  I 
again  sacrificed  myself  to  expediency. 

"  Certainly,"  I  answered  ;  "  and  take  that 
pencil  out  of  your  mouth.  I  've  told  you 
of  that  before.  You  '11  swallow  it  one  day, 
and  then  you  '11  get  perichondritis  and  die." 

She  appeared  to  be  solving  a  problem. 

"  All  grown-up  people  seem  to  know  every- 
thinp;,"  she  summarised. 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres    107 

There  are  times  when  I  doubt  if  children 
areas  simple  as  they  look.  If  it  be  sheer 
stupidity  that  prompts  them  to  make  re- 
marks of  this  character,  one  should  pity 
them,  and  seek  to  improve  them.  But  if  it 
be  not  stupidity  ^  well,  then,  one  should  still 
seek  to  improve  them,  but  by  a  different 
method. 

The  other  morning  I  overheard  the  nurse 
talking  to  this  particular  specimen.  The 
woman  is  a  most  worthy  creature,  and  she 
was  imparting  to  the  child  some  really  sound 
advice.  She  was  in  the  middle  of  an  unex- 
ceptional exhortation  concerning  the  virtue 
of  silence,  when  Dorothea  interrupted  her 
with  — 

"  Oh,  do  be  quiet.  Nurse.  I  never  get 
a  moment's  peace  from  your  chatter." 

Such  an  interruption  discourages  a  woman 
who  is  trying  to  do  her  duty. 

Last  Tuesday  evening  she  was  unhappy. 
Myself,  I  think  that  rhubarb  should  never 
be  eaten  before  April,  and  then  never 
with  lemonade.  Her  mother  read  her  a 
homily  upon  the  subject  of  pain.  It  was 
impressed  upon  her  that  we  must  be  patient, 
that  we  must  put  up  with  the  trouble  that 


io8     On  the  Preparation  and 

God  sends  us.  Dorothea  would  descend  to 
details,  as  children  will. 

"  Must  we  put  up  with  the  cod-liver  oil 
that  God  sends  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  decidedly." 

"  And  with  the  nurses  that  God  sends  us? " 

"  Certainly  ;  and  be  thankful  that  you  've 
got  them  ;  some  little  girls  have  n't  any  nurse 
And  don't  talk  so  much." 

On  Friday  I  found  the  mother  in  tears. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "   I  asked. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  was  the  answer  ;  "  only 
Baby.  She  's  such  a  strange  child.  1  can't 
make  her  out  at  all." 

"  What  has  she  been  up  to  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  will  argue,  you  know." 

She  has  that  failing.  I  don't  know  where 
she  gets  it  from,  but  she  's  got  it. 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  she  made  me  cross  ;  and,  to  punish 
her,  I  told  her  she  should  n't  take  her  doll's 
perambulator  out  with  her." 

"Yes?" 

"  Well,  she  did  n't  say  anything  then,  but 
so  soon  as  I  was  outside  the  door,  I  heard 
her  talking  to  herself —  you  know  her  way  ?  ** 

"Yes?" 


Employment  of  Love  Philtres    1 09 

"She  said  —  " 

"Yes,  she  said?" 

"She  said, 'I  must  be  patient.  I  must 
put  up  with  the  mother  God  has  sent  me. '  " 

She  lunches  downstairs  on  Sundays.  We 
have  her  with  us  once  a  week  to  give  her 
the  opportunity  of  studying  manners  and 
behaviour.  Milson  had  dropped  in,  and  we 
were  discussing  poHtics.  I  was  interested, 
and,  pushing  my  plate  aside,  leant  forward 
with  my  elbows  on  the  table.  Dorothea  has 
a  habit  of  talking  to  herself  in  a  high-pitched 
whisper  capable  of  being  heard  above  an 
Adelphi  love  scene.      I  heard  her  say  — 

"  I  must  sit  up  straight.  I  must  n't  sprawl 
with  my  elbows  on  the  table.  It  is  only 
common,  vulgar  people  behave  that  way." 

I  looked  across  at  her ;  she  was  sitting 
most  correctly,  and  appeared  to  be  contem- 
plating something  a  thousand  miles  away. 
We  had  all  of  us  been  lounging  !  We  sat 
up  stiffly,  and  conversation  flagged. 

Of  course  we  made  a  joke  of  it  after  the 
child  was  gone.  But  somehow  It  did  n't 
seem  to  be  our  joke. 

I  wish  I  could  recollect  my  childhood.  I 
should  so  like  to  know  if  children  are  as 
stupid  as  they  can  look. 


ON  THE   DELIGHTS  AND 
BENEFITS   OF   SLAVERY 


MY  study  window  looks  down  upon 
Hyde  Park,  and  often,  to  quote 
the  familiar  promise  of  each  new  magazine, 
it  amuses  and  instructs  me  to  watch  from  my 
tower  the  epitome  of  human  life  that  passes 
to  and  fro  beneath.  At  the  opening  of  the 
gates,  creeps  in  the  woman  of  the  streets. 
Her  pitiful  work  for  the  time  being  is  over. 
Shivering  in  the  chill  dawn,  she  passes  to 
her  brief  rest.  Poor  slave  !  lured  to  the 
galley's  lowest  deck,  then  chained  there. 
Civilisation,  tricked  fool,  they  say  has  need 
of  such.  You  serve  as  the  dogs  of  Eastern 
towns.  But  at  least,  it  seems  to  me,  we 
need  not  spit  on  you.  Home  to  your 
kennel !  Perchance,  if  the  Gods  be  kind, 
they  may  send  you  dreams  of  a  cleanly  hearth, 
where  you  lie  with  a  silver  collar  round  your"- 
neck. 


Benefits  of  Slavery        1 1 1 

Next  comes  the  labourer  —  the  hewer  of 
wood,  the  drawer  of  water  —  slouching  wearily 
to  his  toil ;  sleep  clinging  still  about  his 
leaden  eyes,  his  pittance  of  food  carried  tied 
up  in  a  dish-clout.  The  first  stroke  of  the 
hour  clangs  from  Big  Ben.  Haste-  thee, 
fellow  slave,  lest  the  overseer's  whip,  "  Out, 
we  will  have  no  lie-a-beds  here,"  descend 
upon  thy  patient  back. 

Later,  the  artisan,  with  his  bag  of  tools 
across  his  shoulder.  He,  too,  listens  fearfully 
to  the  chiming  of  the  bells.  For  him  also 
there  hangs  ready  the  whip. 

After  him  the  shop  boy  and  the  shop  girl, 
making  love  as  they  walk,  not  to  waste  time. 
And  after  these  the  slaves  of  the  desk  and 
of  the  warehouse,  employers  and  employed, 
clerks  and  tradesmen,  office  boys  and  mer- 
chants. To  your  places,  slaves  of  all  ranks. 
Get  you  unto  your  burdens. 

Now,  laughing  and  shouting  as  they  run, 
the  children,  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the 
slaves.  Be  industrious,  little  children,  and 
learn  your  lessons,  that  when  the  time  comes 
you  may  be  ready  to  take  from  our  hands 
the  creaking  oar,  to  slip  into  our  seat  at  the 
roaring  loom.     For  we  shall  not  be  slaves 


112      On  the  Delights  and 

for  ever,  little  children.  It  is  the  good  law 
of  the  land.  So  many  years  in  the  galleys, 
so  many  years  in  the  fields ;  then  we  can 
claim  our  freedom.  Then  we  shall  go,  little 
children,  back  to  the  land  of  our  birth.  And 
you  we  must  leave  behind  us  to  take  up  the 
tale  of  our  work.  So,  off  to  your  schools, 
little  children,  and  learn  to  be  good  httle 
slaves. 

Next,  pompous  and  sleek,  come  the  edu- 
cated slaves, — journalists,  doctors,  judges, 
and  poets;  the  attorney,  the  artist,  the  player, 
the  priest.  They  likewise  skurry  across  the 
Park,  looking  anxiously  from  time  to  time  at 
their  watches,  lest  they  be  late  for  their  ap- 
pointments ;  thinking  of  the  rates  and  taxes 
to  be  earned,  of  the  bonnets  to  be  paid  for, 
the  bills  to  be  met.  The  best  scourged,  per« 
haps,  of  all,  these  slaves.  The  cat  reserved  for 
them  has  fifty  tails  in  place  of  merely  two  or 
three.  Work,  you  higher  middle-class  slave, 
or  you  shall  come  down  to  the  smoking  of 
two-penny  cigars  ;  harder  yet,  or  you  shall 
drink  shilling  claret;  harder,  or  you  shall 
lose  your  carriage  and  ride  in  a  penny  bus ; 
your  wife's  frocks  shall  be  of  last  year's 
fashion  ;  your  trousers  shall  bag  at  the  knees ; 


Benefits  of  Slavery        113 

from  Kensington  you  shall  be  banished  to 
Kilburn,  if  the  tale  of  your  bricks  run  short. 
Oh,  a  many-thonged  whip  is  yours,  my 
genteel  brother. 

The  slaves  of  fashion  are  the  next  to  pass 
beneath  me  in  review.  They  are  dressed 
and  curled  with  infinite  pains.  The  liveried, 
pampered  footmen  these,  kept  more  for  show 
than  use ;  but  their  senseless  tasks  none  the 
less  labour  to  them.  Here  must  they  come 
every  day,  merry  or  sad.  By  this  gravel 
path  and  no  other  must  they  walk ;  these 
phrases  shall  they  use  when  they  speak  to 
one  another.  For  an  hour  must  they  go 
slowly  up  and  down  upon  a  bicycle  from 
Hyde  Park  Corner  to  the  Magazine  and 
back.  And  these  clothes  they  must  wear; 
their  gloves  of  this  colour,  their  neckties  of 
this  pattern.  In  the  afternoon  they  must 
return  again,  this  time  in  a  carriage,  dressed 
in  another  livery,  and  for  an  hour  they  must 
pass  slowly  to  and  fro  in  fooHsh  procession. 
For  dinner  they  must  don  yet  another  livery, 
and  after  dinner  they  must  stand  about  at 
dreary  social  functions  till  with  weariness  and 
boredom  their  heads  feel  dropping  from  their 
shoulders. 

8 


1 14      On  the  Delights  and 

With  the  evening  come  the  slaves  back 
from  their  work :  barristers,  thinking  out 
their  eloquent  appeals  ;  school-boys,  conning 
their  dog-eared  grammars  ;  city  men,  planning 
their  schemes ;  the  wearers  of  motley,  cudg- 
elhng  their  poor  brains  for  fresh  wit  with 
which  to  please  their  master ;  shop  boys  and 
shop  girls,  silent  now,  as  together  they  plod 
homeward  ;  the  artisan  ;  the  labourer.  Two 
or  three  hours  you  shall  have  to  yourselves, 
slaves,  to  think  and  love  and  play,  if  you  be 
not  too  tired  to  think,  or  love,  or  play. 
Then  to  your  litter,  that  you  may  be  ready 
for  the  morrow's  task. 

The  twilight  deepens  into  dark ;  there 
comes  back  the  woman  of  the  streets.  As 
the  shadows,  she  rounds  the  City's  day. 
Work  strikes  its  tent.  Evil  creeps  from  its 
peering  place. 

So  we  labour,  driven  by  the  whip  of  neces- 
sity, an  army  of  slaves.  If  we  do  not  our 
work,  the  whip  descends  upon  us  ;  only  the 
pain  we  feel  in  our  stomach  instead  of  on 
our  back.  And  because  of  that,  we  call  our- 
selves free  men. 

Some  few  among  us  bravely  struggle  to 
be  really  free  ;  they  are  our  tramps  and  out- 


Benefits  of  Slavery       1 1 5 

casts.  We  well-behaved  slaves  shrink  from 
them,  for  the  wages  of  freedom  in  this  world 
are  vermin  and  starvation.  We  can  live 
lives  worth  living  only  by  placing  the  collar 
round  our  neck. 

There  are  times  when  one  asks  oneself. 
Why  this  endless  labour  ?  Why  this  build- 
ing of  houses,  this  cooking  of  food,  this 
making  of  clothes  ?  Is  the  ant  so  much 
more  to  be  envied  than  the  grasshopper,  be- 
cause she  spends  her  life  in  grubbing  and 
storing,  and  can  spare  no.  time  for  singing? 
Why  this  complex  instinct,  driving  us  to  a 
thousand  labours  to  satisfy  a  thousand  de- 
sires ?  We  have  turned  the  world  into  a 
workshop  to  provide  ourselves  with  toys. 
To  purchase  luxury  we  have  sold  our  ease. 

O  Children  of  Israel  !  why  were  ye  not 
content  in  your  wilderness  ?  It  seems  to 
have  been  a  pattern  wilderness.  For  you, 
a  simple  wholesome  food,  ready  cooked,  was 
provided.  You  took  no  thought  for  rent 
and  taxes  ;  you  had  no  poor  among  you,  — 
no  poor-rate  collectors.  You  suffered  not 
from  indigestion,  nor  the  hundred  ills  that 
follow  overfeeding  ;  an  omer  for  every  man 
was  your  portion,  neither  more  nor  less.  You 


1 1  §     On  the  Delights  and 

knew  not  you  had  a  liver.  Doctors  wearied 
you  not  with  their  theories,  their  physics, 
and  their  bills.  You  were  neither  land- 
owners nor  leaseholders,  neither  shareholders 
nor  debenture  holders.  The  weather  and 
the  market  reports  troubled  you  not.  The 
lawyer  was  unknown  to  you  ;  you  wanted 
no  advice  ;  you  had  nought  to  quarrel  about 
with  your  neighbour.  No  riches  were  yours 
for  the  moth  and  rust  to  damage.  Your 
yearly  income  and  expenditure  you  knew 
would  balance  to  a  fraction.  Your  wife  and 
children  were  provided  for.  Your  old  age 
caused  you  no  anxiety  ;  you  knew  you  would 
always  have  enough  to  live  upon  in  comfort. 
Your  funeral,  a  simple  and  tasteful  affair, 
would  be  furnished  by  the  tribe.  And  yet, 
poor,  foolish  child,  fresh  from  the  Egyptian 
brickfield,  you  could  not  rest  satisfied.  You 
hungered  for  the  flesh-pots,  knowing  well 
what  flesh-pots  entail :  the  cleaning  of  the 
flesh-pots,  the  forging  of  the  flesh-pots,  the 
hewing  of  wood  to  make  the  fires  for  the 
boiling  of  the  flesh-pots,  the  breeding  of 
beasts  to  fill  the  pots,  the  growing  of  fodder 
to  feed  the  beasts  to  fill  the  pots. 

All  the  labour  of  our  life  is  centred  round 


Benefits  of  Slavery        1 1 7 

our  flesh-pots.  On  the  altar  of  the  flesh- 
pot  we  sacrifice  our  leisure,  our  peace  ot 
mind.  For  a  mess  of  pottage  we  sell  our 
birthright. 

O  Children  of  Israel,  saw  you  not  the 
long  punishment  you  were  preparing  for 
yourselves,  when  in  your  wilderness  you 
set  up  the  image  of  the  Calf,  and  fell  before 
it,  crying,  "  This  shall  be  our  God." 

You  would  have  veal.  Thought  you 
never  of  the  price  man  pays  for  Veal  ?  The 
servants  of  the  Golden  Calf!  I  see  them, 
stretched  before  my  eyes,  a  weary  endless 
throng.  I  see  them  toiling  in  the  mines, 
the  black  sweat  on  their  faces.  I  see  them 
in  sunless  cities,  silent  and  grimy  and  bent. 
I  see  them  ague-twisted,  in  the  rain-soaked 
fields.  I  see  them  panting  by  the  furnace 
doors.  I  see  them  in  loin-cloth  and  neck- 
lace, the  load  upon  their  head,  I  see  them 
in  blue  coats  and  red  coats,  marching  to  pour 
their  blood  as  an  offering  on  the  altar  of  the 
Calf  I  see  them  in  homespun  and  broad- 
cloth, I  see  them  in  smock  and  gaiters,  I  see 
them  in  cap  and  apron,  theservantsofthe  Calf 
They  swarm  on  the  land  and  they  dot  the  sea. 
They  are  chained  to  the  anvil  and  counter ; 


1 1 8     On  the  Delights  and 

they  are  chained  to  the  bench  and  the  desk. 
They  make  ready  the  soil ;  they  till  the  fields 
where  the  Golden  Calf  is  born.  They  build 
the  ship,  and  they  sail  the  ship  that  carries 
the  Golden  Calf.  They  fashion  the  pots, 
they  mould  the  pans,  they  carve  the  tables, 
they  turn  the  chairs,  they  dream  of  the 
sauces,  they  dig  for  the  salt,  they  weave 
the  damask,  they  mould  the  dish  to  serve 
the  Golden  Calf 

The  work  of  the  world  is  to  this  end,  that  we 
eat  of  the  Calf.  War  and  Commerce,  Science 
and  Law  !  what  are  they  but  the  four  pillars 
supporting  the  Golden  Calf?  He  is  our 
God.  It  is  on  his  back  that  we  have  jour- 
neyed from  the  primeval  forest,  where  our 
ancestors  ate  nuts  and  fruit.  He  is  our  God. 
His  temple  is  in  every  street.  His  blue- 
robed  priest  stands  ever  at  the  door,  calling 
to  the  people  to  worship.  Hark  !  his  voice 
rises  on  the  gas-tainted  air  :  "  Now  's  your 
time  !  Now  's  your  time  !  Buy  !  Buy  !  ye 
people.  Bring  hither  the  sweat  of  your 
brow,  the  sweat  of  your  brain,  the  ache  of 
your  heart,  buy  Veal  with  it.  Bring  me 
the  best  years  of  your  life.  Bring  me 
your  thoughts,  your  hopes,  your  loves ;  ye 


Benefits  of  Slavery       i  ig 

shall  have  Veal  for  them.  Now  's  your  time  ! 
Now  's  your  time  !   Buy  !   Buy  !  " 

0  Children  of  Israel,  was  Veal,  even 
with  all  its  trimmings,  quite  worth  the  price  ? 

And  we  !  what  wisdom  have  we  learned, 
during  the  centuries  ?  I  talked  with  a"  rich 
man  only  the  other  evening.  He  calls  him- 
self a  Financier,  whatever  that  may  mean. 
He  leaves  his  beautiful  house,  some  twenty 
miles  out  of  London,  at  a  quarter  to  eight, 
summer  and  winter,  after  a  hurried  breakfast 
by  himself,  while  his  guests  stiU  sleep,  and 
he  gets  back  just  in  time  to  dress  for  an 
elaborate  dinner  he  himself  is  too  weary  or 
too  preoccupied  to  more  than  touch.  If 
ever  he  is  persuaded  to  give  himself  a  holi- 
day it  is  for  a  fortnight  in  Ostend,  when  it 
is  most  crowded  and  uncomfortable.  He 
takes  his  secretary  with  him,  receives  and 
despatches  a  hundred  telegrams  a  day,  and 
has  a  private  telephone,  through  which  he 
can  speak  direct  to  London,  brought  up 
into    his    bedroom. 

1  suppose  the  telephone  is  really  a  useful 
invention.  Business  men  tell  me  they  won- 
der how  they  contrived  to  conduct  their 
affairs  without  it.     My  own  wonder  always 


I20     On  the  Delights  and 

is,  how  any  human  being  with  the  ordinary 
passions  of  his  race  can  conduct  his  business, 
or  even  himself,  creditably,  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  invention.  I  can  imagine  Job, 
or  Griselda,  or  Socrates  liking  to  have  a  tele- 
phone about  them  as  exercise,  Socrates,  in 
particular,  would  have  made  quite  a  reputa- 
tion for  himself  out  of  a  three  months'  sub- 
scription to  a  telephone.  Myself,  I  am, 
perhaps,  too  sensitive.  I  once  lived  for  a 
month  in  an  office  with  a  telephone,  if  one 
could  call  it  life.  I  was  told  that  if  I  had 
stuck  to  the  thing  for  two  or  three  months 
longer,  I  should  have  got  used  to  it.  I  know 
friends  of  mine,  men  once  fearless  and  high- 
spirited,  who  now  stand  in  front  of  their  own 
telephone  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  a  time, 
and  never  so  much  as  answer  it  back.  They 
tell  me  that  at  first  they  used  to  swear  and 
shout  at  it  as  I  did ;  but  now  their  spirit 
seems  crushed.  That  is  what  happens  :  you 
either  break  the  telephone,  or  the  telephone 
breaks  you.  You  want  to  see  a  man  two 
streets  off".  You  might  put  on  your  hat 
and  be  round  at  his  office  in  five  minutes. 
You  are  on  the  point  of  starting  when  the 
telephone  catches  your  eye.     You  think  you 


Benefits  of  Slavery       121 

will  ring  him  up  to  make  sure  he  is  in.  You 
commence  by  ringing  up  some  half-dozen 
times  before  anybody  takes  any  notice  of  you 
whatever.  You  are  burning  with  indignation 
at  this  neglect,  and  have  left  the  instrument 
to  sit  down  and  pen  a  stinging  letter  of  com- 
plaint to  the  Company  when  the  ring-back 
re-calls  you.  You  seize  the  ear  trumpets 
and  shout :  — 

"  How  is  it  that  I  can  never  get  an  answer 
when  I  ring?  Here  have  I  been  ringing 
for  the  last  half-hour.  I  have  rung  twenty 
times."  (This  is  a  falsehood.  You  have 
rung  only  six  times,  and  the  "  half-hour  "  is 
an  absurd  exaggeration ;  but  you  feel  the 
mere  truth  would  not  be  worthy  of  the 
occasion.)  "  I  think  it  disgraceful,"  you 
continue,  "  and  I  shall  complain  to  the  Com- 
pany. What  is  the  use  of  my  having  a 
telephone  if  I  can't  get  any  answer  when  I 
ring?  Here  I  pay  a  large  sum  for  having 
this  thing,  and  I  can't  get  any  notice  taken. 
I  've  been  ringing  all  the  morning.  Why 
is  it  ?  " 

Then  you  wait  for  the  answer. 

"What  —  what  do  you  say  ?  I  can't  hear 
what  you  say." 


122      On  the  Delights  and 

"  I  say  I  've  been  ringing  here  for  over  an 
hour,  and  I  can't  get  any  reply,"  you  call 
back.     "  I  shall  complain  to  the  Company." 

"  You  want  what  ?  Don't  stand  so  near 
the  tube.  I  can't  hear  what  you  say.  What 
number  ?  " 

"  Bother  the  number  !  I  say  why  is  it  I 
don't  get  an  answer  when  I  ring  ^  " 

"  Eight  hundred  and  what  ?  " 

You  can't  argue  any  more  after  that. 
The  machine  would  give  way  under  the 
language  you  want  to  make  use  of  Half 
of  what  you  feel  would  probably  cause  an 
explosion  at  some  point  where  the  wire  was 
weak.  Indeed,  mere  language  of  any  kind 
would  fall  short  of  the  requirements  of  the 
case.  A  hatchet  and  a  gun  are  the  only 
intermediaries  through  which  you  could  con- 
v^ey  your  meaning  by  this  time.  So  you  give 
up  all  attempt  to  answer  back,  and  meekly 
mention  that  you  want  to  be  put  in  com- 
munication with  four-five-seven-six. 

"  Four-nine-seven-six  ?  "  says  the  girl. 

"  No  ;  four-five-seven-six." 

"  Did  you  say  seven-six  or  six-seven  ?  " 

"  Six-seven  —  no  !  I  mean  seven-six  :  no 
—  wait  a  minute.  I  don't  know  what  I  do 
mean  now.'* 


Benefits  of  slavery        123 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  find  out,"  says  the 
young  lady,  severely.  "  You  are  keeping  me 
here  all  the  morning." 

So  you  look  up  the  number  In  the  book 
again,  and  at  last  she  tells  you  that  you  are  in 
connection,  and  then,  ramming  the  trumpet 
tight  against  your  ear,  you  stand  waiting. 

And  if  there  is  one  thing  more  than 
another  likely  to  make  a  man  feel  ridiculous 
It  is  standing  on  tiptoe  in  a  corner,  holding 
a  machine  to  his  head,  and  listening  intently 
to  nothing.  Your  back  aches  and  your  head 
aches  ;  your  very  hair  aches.  You  hear  the 
door  open  behind  you  and  somebody  enter 
the  room.  You  can't  turn  your  head.  You 
swear  at  them^  and  hear  the  door  close  with 
a  bang.  It  Immediately  occurs  to  you  that 
in  all  probability  It  was  Henrietta.  She 
promised  to  call  for  you  at  half-past  twelve  : 
you  were  to  take  her  to  lunch.  It  was 
twelve  o'clock  when  you  were  fool  enough 
to  mix  yourself  up  with  this  infernal  machine, 
and  it  probably  is  half-past  twelve  by  now. 
Your  past  life  rises  before  you,  accompanied 
by  dim  memories  of  your  grandmother.  You 
are  wondering  how  much  longer  you  can 
bear  the  strain  of  this  attlcude,  and  whether. 


1 24     On  the  Delights  and 

after  all,  you  do  really  want  to  see  the  man  in 
the  next  street  but  two,  when  the  girl  in  the 
exchange-room  calls  up  to  know  if  you  're 
done. 

"  Done  !  "  you  retort  bitterly  ;  "  why,  I 
have  n't  begun  yet." 

"  Well,  be  quick,"  she  says,  "  because 
you  're  wasting  time." 

Thus  admonished,  you  attack  the  thing 
again.  "  Are  you  there  ?  "  you  cry  in  tones 
that  ought  to  move  the  heart  of  a  Charity 
Commissioner ;  and  then,  oh  joy !  oh  rap- 
ture !  you  hear  a  faint  human  voice  reply- 

"  Yes  ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  !     Are  you  four-five-seven-six  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  Are  you  four-five-seven-six,  William- 
son ?  " 

"  What !  who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Eight-one-nine,  Jones." 

"  Bones  ?  " 

"  No,  ^ones.  Are  you  fo ur-five -seven- 
six  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Is  Mr.  Williamson  in  ?  '* 

"Will  I  what  —  who  are  you?" 


Benefits  of  slavery       125 

"Jones  !     Is  Mr.  Williamson  in  ?  ** 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  Williamson.     Will-i-am-son  !  '* 

"  You  're  the  son  of  what  ?  I  can't  hear 
what  you  say." 

Then  you  gather  yourself  for  one  final 
effort,  and  succeed,  by  superhuman  patience, 
in  getting  the  fool  to  understand  that  you 
wish  to  know  if  Mr.  Williamson  is  in,  and 
he  says,  so  it  sounds  to  you,  "  Be  in  all  the 
morning." 

So  you  snatch  up  your  hat  and  run  round. 

"  Oh,  I  've  come  to  see  Mr.  Williamson," 
you  say. 

"  Very  sorry,  sir,"  is  the  polite  reply, 
"  but  he  's  out." 

"  Out  ?  Why,  you  just  now  told  me 
through  the  telephone  that  he  'd  be  in  all 
the  morning." 

"  No,  I  said,  he  '  wont  be  in  all  the  morn- 
ing.'" 

You  go  back  to  the  office,  and  sit  down 
in  front  of  that  telephone  and  look  at  it. 
There  it  hangs,  calm  and  imperturbable. 
Were  it  an  ordinary  instrument,  that  would 
be  its  last  hour.  You  would  go  straight 
downstairs,  get    the    coal-hammer   and    the 


126     On  the  Delights  and 

kitchen-poker,  and  divide  it  into  sufficient 
pieces  to  give  a  bit  to  every  man  in  London. 
But  you  feel  nervous  of  these  electrical  af- 
fairs, and  there  is  a  something  about  that 
telephone,  with  its  black  hole  and  curly 
wires,  that  cowers  you.  You  have  a  notion 
that  if  you  don't  handle  it  properly  some- 
thing may  come  and  shock  you,  and  then 
there  will  be  an  inquest,  and  bother  of  that 
sort,  so  you  only  curse  it. 

That  is  what  happens  when  you  want  to 
use  the  telephone  from  your  end.  But  that 
is  not  the  worst  that  the  telephone  can  do. 
A  sensible  man,  after  a  little  experience,  can 
learn  to  leave  the  thing  alone.  Your  worst 
troubles  are  not  of  your  own  making.  You 
are  working  against  time ;  you  have  given 
instructions  not  to  be  disturbed.  Perhaps 
it  is  after  lunch,  and  you  are  thinking  with 
your  eyes  closed,  so  that  your  thoughts  shall 
not  be  distracted  by  the  objects  about  the 
room.  In  either  case  you  are  anxious  not 
to  leave  your  chair,  when  off  goes  that  tele- 
phone bell  and  you  spring  from  your  chair, 
uncertain,  for  the  moment,  whether  you  have 
been  shot  or  blown  up  with  dynamite.  It 
occurs  to  you  in  your  weakness  that  if  you 


Benefits  of  Slavery       1 2  7 

persist  in  taking  no  notice,  they  will  get 
tired  and  leave  you  alone.  But  that  is  not 
their  method.  The  bell  rings  violently  at 
ten-second  intervals.  You  have  nothing  to 
wrap  your  head  up  in.  You  think  it  will 
be  better  to  get  this  business  over  and  done 
with.  You  go  to  your  fate  and  call  back 
savagely,  — 

"  What  is  it  ?     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

No  answer,  only  a  confused  murmur, 
prominent  out  of  which  come  the  voices  of 
two  men  swearing  at  one  another.  The  lan- 
guage they  are  making  use  of  is  disgraceful. 
The  telephone  seems  peculiarly  adapted  for 
the  conveyance  of  blasphemy.  Ordinary 
language  sounds  indistinct  through  it;  but 
every  word  those  two  men  are  saying  can  be 
heard  by  all  the  telephone  subscribers  in 
London. 

It  is  useless  attempting  to  listen  till  they 
have  done.  When  they  are  exhausted,  you 
apply  to  the  tube  again.  No  answer  is  ob- 
tainable. You  get  mad,  and  become  sarcas- 
tic;  only  being  sarcastic  when  you  are  not 
sure  that  anybody  is  at  the  other  end  to  hear 
you  is  unsatisfying. 

At  last,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  of 


128      On  the  Delights  and 

saying,  "  Are  you  there  ? "  "  Yes,  I  'm 
here,"  "  Well  ?  "  the  young  lady  at  the  Ex- 
change asks  what  yo\i  want. 

"  I  don't  want  anything,"  you  reply. 

"  Then  why  do  you  keep  talking  ?  "  she 
retorts  ;  "  you  must  n't  play  with  the  thing." 

This  renders  you  speechless  with  indigna- 
tion for  a  while,  upon  recovering  from  which 
you  explain  that  somebody  rang  you  up. 

"  PFko  rang  you  up  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  wish  you  did,"  she  observes. 

Generally  disgusted,  you  slam  the  trumpet 
up  and  return  to  your  chair.  The  instant 
you  are  seated  the  bell  clangs  again  ;  and 
you  fly  up  and  demand  to  know  what  the 
thunder  they  want,  and  who  the  thunder 
they  are. 

"  Don't  speak  so  loud ;  we  can't  hear  you. 
What  do  you  want  ?  "  is  the  answer. 

"  I  don't  want  anything.  What  do  you 
want  ?  Why  do  you  ring  me  up  and  then 
not  answer  me  ^  Do  leave  me  alone  if  you 
can." 

"  We  can't  get  Hong  Kongs  at  seventy- 
four." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  you  can't.*' 


Benefits  of  Slavery       1 29 

"  Would  you  like  Zulus  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  you 
reply ;  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Would  you  like  Zulus,  —  Zulus  at 
seventy-three  and  a  half?  " 

"  I  would  n't  have  'em  at  six  a  penny. 
What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"  Hong  Kongs  —  we  can't  get  them  at 
Beventy-four.  Oh,  half-a-minute  "  (the  half- 
a-minute  passes).     "  Are  you  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  you  are  talking  to  the  wrong 
man." 

"  We  can  get  you  Hong  Kongs  at  seventy- 
four  and  seven-eighths." 

"  Bother  Hong  Kongs,  and  you  too.  I 
tell  you,  you  are  talking  to  the  wrong  man. 
I  've  told  you  once." 

"  Once  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  I  am  the  wrong  man  —  I 
mean  that  you  are  talking  to  the  wrong 
man." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Eight-one-nine,  Jones.'* 

"  Oh,  are  n't  you  one-nine-eight  ?  " 

«  No." 

"  Oh,  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye." 

9 


130     On  the  Delights  and 

How  can  a  man  after  that  sit  down  and 
write  pleasantly  of  the  European  crisis  ? 
And,  if  it  were  needed,  herein  lies  another 
indictment  against  the  telephone.  I  was  en- 
gaged in  an  argument,  which  if  not  in  itself 
serious,  was  at  least  concerned  with  a  serious 
enough  subject,  the  unsatisfactory  nature  of 
human  riches  ;  and  from  that  highly  moral 
discussion  have  I  been  lured,  by  the  acci- 
dental sight  of  the  word  "  telephone,"  into 
the  writing  of  matter  which  can  have  the 
effect  only  of  exciting  to  frenzy  all  critics  of 
the  New  Humour  into  whose  hands,  for  their 
sins,  this  book  may  come.  Let  me  forget 
my  transgression  and  return  to  my  sermon, 
or  rather  to  the  sermon  of  my  millionaire 
acquaintance. 

It  was  one  day  after  dinner;  we  sat  to- 
gether in  his  magnificently  furnished  dining- 
room.  We  had  lighted  our  cigars  at  the 
silver  lamp.     The  butler  had  withdrawn. 

"These  cigars  we  are  smoking,"  my 
friend  suddenly  remarked,  a  propos  appar- 
ently of  nothing,  "  they  cost  me  five  shil- 
lings apiece,  taking  them  by  the  thousand." 

"  I  can  quite  believe  it,"  I  answered ; 
*'  they  are  worth  it." 


Benefits  of  Slavery        131 

"  Yes,  to  you,"  he  replied  almost  savagely. 
"  What  do  you  usually  pay  for  your  cigars  ?  " 

We  had  known  each  other  years  ago. 
When  I  first  met  him  his  offices  consisted 
of  a  back  room  up  three  flights  of  stairs  in 
a  dingy  bye-street  off  the  Strand,  which  has 
since  disappeared.  We  occasionally  dined 
together,  in  those  days,  at  a  restaurant  in 
Great  Portland  Street,  for  one  and  nine. 
Our  acquaintanceship  was  of  sufficient 
standing  to  allow  of  such  a  question. 

"  Threepence,"  I  answered.  "  They  work 
out  at  about  twopence  three  farthings  by  the 
box." 

"  Just  so,"  he  growled  ;  "  and  your  two- 
penny-three-farthing weed  gives  you  pre- 
cisely the  same  amount  of  satisfaction  that 
this  five-shilling  cigar  affi^rds  me.  That 
means  four  and  ninepence  farthing  wasted 
every  time  I  smoke.  I  pay  my  cook  two 
hundred  a  year.  I  don't  enjoy  my  dinner 
as  much  as  when  it  cost  me  four  shillings, 
including  a  quarter  flask  of  Chianti.  What 
is  the  difference,  personally,  to  me  whether 
I  drive  to  my  office  in  a  carriage  and  pair, 
or  in  an  omnibus?  I  often  do  ride  in  a  bus  : 
it  saves  trouble.     It  is  absurd  wasting  time 


132     On  the  Delights  and 

looking  for  one's  coachman,  when  the  con* 
ductor  of  an  omnibus  that  passes  one's  door 
is  haiHng  one  a  few  yards  off.  Before  I 
could  afford  even  buses  —  when  I  used  to 
walk  every  morning  to  the  office  from 
Hammersmith  —  I  was  healthier.  It  irri- 
tates me  to  think  how  hard  I  work  for  no 
earthly  benefit  to  myself  My  money 
pleases  a  lot  of  people  I  don't  care  two 
straws  about,  and  who  are  only  my  friends 
in  the  hope  of  making  something  out  of 
me.  If  I  could  eat  a  hundred-guinea  dinner 
myself  every  night,  and  enjoy  it  four  hun- 
dred times  as  much  as  I  used  to  enjoy  a  five- 
shilling  dinner,  there  would  be  some  sense 
in  it.     Why  do  I  do  it  ?  " 

I  had  never  heard  him  talk  like  this 
before.  In  his  excitement  he  rose  from 
the  table,  and  commenced  pacing  the 
room. 

"  Why  don't  I  invest  my  money  in  tht 
two  and  a  half  per  cents  ? "  he  continued. 
"  At  the  very  worst  I  should  be  safe  for 
five  thousand  a  year.  What,  in  the  nam<3 
of  common  sense,  does  a  man  want  with 
more  ?  I  am  always  saying  to  myself^  I  'li 
do  it ;  why  don't  I  ?  " 


Benefits  of  Slavery        1 3  3 

**Well,  why  not?"  I  echoed. 

"  That 's  what  I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  he 
returned.  "  You  set  up  for  understanding 
human  nature  ;  it 's  a  mystery  to  me.  In  my 
place,  you  would  do  as  I  do ;  you  know 
that.  If  somebody  left  you  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  to-morrow,  you  would 
3tart  a  newspaper,  or  build  a  theatre, — 
some  damn-fool  trick  for  getting  rid  of  the 
money  and  giving  yourself  seventeen  hours* 
anxiety  a  day  ;  you  know  you  would." 

I  hung  my  head  in  shame.  I  felt  the 
justice  of  the  accusation.  It  has  always 
been  my  dream  to  run  a  newspaper  and 
own  a  theatre. 

"  If  we  worked  only  for  what  we  could 
spend,"  he  went  on,  "  the  City  might  put 
up  its  shutters  to-morrow  morning.  What 
I  want  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  is  this  in- 
stinct that  drives  us  to  work  apparently 
for  work's  own  sake.  What  is  this  strange 
thing  that  gets  upon  our  back  and  spurs 
us?" 

A  servant  entered  at  that  moment  with  a 
cablegram  from  the  manager  of  one  of  his 
Austrian  mines,  and  he  had  to  leave  me  for 
his    study.     But,  walking  home,   I    fell   to 


134     ^^  ^^^  Delights  and 

pondering  on  his  words.  JVhy  this  endless 
work  ?  Why  each  morning  do  we  get  up 
and  wash  and  dress  ourselves,  to  undress 
ourselves  at  night  and  go  to  bed  again  ? 
Why  do  we  work  merely  to  earn  money  to 
buy  food  ;  and  eat  food  so  as  to  gain  strength 
that  we  may  work  ?  Why  do  we  live, 
merely  in  the  end  to  say  good-bye  to  one 
another  ?  Why  do  we  labour  to  bring 
children  into  the  world  that  they  may  die 
and  be  buried? 

Of  what  use  our  mad  striving,  our  pas- 
sionate desire  ?  Will  it  matter  to  the  ages 
whether,  once  upon  a  time,  the  Union  Jack 
or  the  Tricolour  floated  over  the  battlements 
of  Badajoz  ?  Yet  we  poured  our  blood  into 
its  ditches  to  decide,  the  question.  Will  it 
matter,  in  the  days  when  the  glacial  period 
shall  have  come  again,  to  clothe  the  earth 
with  silence,  whose  foot  first  trod  the  Pole  ? 
Yet,  generation  after  generation,  we  mile  its 
roadway  with  our  whitening  bones.  So  very 
soon  the  worms  come  to  us ;  does  it  matter 
whether  we  love  or  hate  ?  Yet  the  hot 
blood  rushes  through  our  veins,  we  wear 
out  heart  and  brain  for  shadowy  hopes 
that  ever  fade  as  we   press   forward. 


Benefits  of  Slavery        1 3  5 

The  flower  struggles  up  from  seed-pod, 
draws  the  sweet  sap  from  the  ground,  folds 
its  petals  each  night,  and  sleeps.  Then  love 
comes  to  it  in  a  strange  form,  and  it  longs 
to  mingle  its  pollen  with  the  pollen  of  some 
other  flower.  So  it  puts  forth  its  gay  blos- 
soms, and  the  wandering  insect  bears  the 
message  from  seed-pod  to  seed-pod.  And 
the  seasons  pass,  bringing  with  them  the  sun- 
shine and  the  rain,  till  the  flower  withers, 
never  having  known  the  real  purpose  for 
which  it  lived,  thinking  the  garden  was 
made  for  it,  not  it  for  the  garden.  The 
coral  insect  dreams  in  its  small  soul,  which 
is  possibly"  its  small  stomach,  of  home  and 
food.  So  it  works  and  strives  deep  down  in 
the  dark  waters,  never  knowing  of  the  con- 
tinents it  is  fashioning. 

But  the  question  still  remains  :  for  what 
purpose  is  it  all  ?  Science  explains  it  to  us. 
By  ages  of  strife  and  effort  we  improve  the 
race;  from  ether,  through  the  monkey,  man 
is  born.  So,  through  the  labour  of  the  com- 
ing ages,  he  will  free  himself  still  further 
from  the  brute.  Through  sorrow  and 
through  struggle,  by  the  sweat  of  brain 
and  brow,  he  will  lift  himself  towards  the 
angels.     He  will  come  into  his  kingdom. 


136     On  the  Delights  and 

But  why  the  building  ?  Why  the  pass- 
ing of  the  countless  ages  ?  Why  should  he 
not  have  been  born  the  god  he  is  to  be, 
imbued  at  birth  with  all  the  capabilities  his 
ancestors  have  died  acquiring?  W^hy  the 
Pict  and  Hun  that  /  may  be  ?  Why  /,  that 
3,  descendant  of  my  own,  to  whom  I  shall 
seem  a  savage,  shall  come  after  me  ?  Why, 
if  the  universe  be  ordered  by  a  Creator  to 
whom  all  things  are  possible,  the  protoplas- 
mic cell  ?  Why  not  the  man  that  is  to  be  ? 
Shall  all  the  generations  be  so  much  human 
waste  that  he  may  live  ?  Am  I  but  another 
layer  of  the  soil  preparing  for  him  ? 

Or,  if  our  future  be  in  other  spheres,  then 
why  the  need  of  this  planet  ?  Are  we 
labouring  at  some  work  too  vast  for  us  to 
perceive  ?  Are  our  passions  and  desires 
mere  whips  and  traces  by  the  help  of  which 
we  are  driven  ?  Any  theory  seems  more 
hopeful  than  the  thought  that  all  our  eager, 
fretful  lives  are  but  the  turning  of  a  useless 
prison  crank.  Looking  back  the  little  dis- 
tance that  our  dim  eyes  can  penetrate  the 
past,  what  do  we  find  ?  Civilisations,  built 
up  with  infinite  care,  swept  aside  and  lost. 
Beliefs  for  which  men  lived  and  died,  proved 


Benefits  of  Slavery        137 

to  be  mockeries.  Greek  Art  crushed  to  the 
dust  by  Gothic  bludgeons.  Dreams  of 
fraternity,  drowned  in  blood  by  a  Napoleon. 
What  is  left  to  us  but  the  hope  that  the 
work  itself,  not  the  result,  is  the  real  monu- 
ment ?  Maybe  we  are  as  children,  asking, 
"  Of  what  use  are  these  lessons  ?  What 
good  will  they  ever  be  to  us  ?  "  But  there 
comes  a  day  when  the  lad  understands  why 
he  learnt  grammar  and  geography,  when 
even  dates  have  a  meaning  for  him.  But 
this  is  not  until  he  has  left  school  and  gone 
out  into  the  wider  world.  So,  perhaps, 
when  we  are  a  little  more  grown  up,  we  too 
may  begin  to  understand  the  reason  for  our 
livine. 


ON    THE   CARE   AND    MANAGE- 
MENT  OF   WOMEN 


I  TALKED  to  a  woman  once  on  the 
subject  of  honeymoons.  I  said, 
"  Would  you  recommend  a  long  honey- 
moon, or  a  Saturday  to  Monday  some- 
where ?  "  A  silence  fell  upon  her.  I 
gathered  she  was  looking  back  rather  than 
forward  to  her  answer. 

"  I  would  advise  a  long  honeymoon,"  she 
replied  at  length,  "the  old-fashioned  month." 

"  Why,"  I  persisted,  "  I  thought  the  ten- 
dency of  the  age  was  to  cut  these  things 
shorter  and  shorter." 

"  It  is  the  tendency  of  the  age,"  she  an- 
swered, "  to  seek  escape  from  many  things  it 
would  be  wiser  to  face.    I  think  myself  that. 


Management  of  Women     139 

for  good  or  evil,  the  sooner  it  is  over,  - —  the 
sooner  both  the  man  and  the  woman  know, 
—  the  better." 

"  The  sooner  what  is  over  ?  "   I  asked. 

If  she  had  a  fault,  this  woman,  about 
which  I  am  not  sure,  it  was  an  inclination 
towards  enigma. 

She  crossed  to  the  window  and  stood  there, 
looking  out. 

"  Was  there  not  a  custom,"  she  said,  still 
gazing  down  into  the  wet,  glistening  street, 
"  among  one  of  the  ancient  peoples,  I  forget 
which,  ordaining  that  when  a  man  and  woman, 
loving  each  other,  or  thinking  that  they 
loved,  had  been  joined  together,  they  should 
go  down  upon  their  wedding  night  to  the 
temple  ?  And  into  the  dark  recesses  of  the 
temple,  through  many  winding  passages, 
the  priest  led  them  until  they  came  to  the 
great  chamber  where  dwelt  the  Voice  of  their 
god.  There  the  priest  left  them,  clanging- 
to  the  massive  door  behind  him,  and  there, 
alone  in  silence,  they  made  their  sacrifice  ; 
and  in  the  night  the  Voice  spoke  to  them, 
showing  them  their  future  life,  —  whether 
they  had  chosen  well  ;  whether  their  love 
would  live  or  die.     And  in  the  morning  the 


140        On  the  Care  and 

priest  returned  and  led  them  back  into  the 
day ;  and  they  dwelt  among  their  fellows. 
But  no  one  was  permitted  to  question  them, 
nor  they  to  answer  should  any  do  so. — 
Well,  do  you  know,  our  nineteenth-century 
honeymoon  at  Brighton,  Switzerland,  or 
Ramsgate,  as  the  choice  or  necessity  may  be, 
always  seems  to  me  merely  another  form  of 
that  night  spent  alone  in  the  temple  before 
the  altar  of  that  forgotten  god.  Our  young 
men  and  women  marry,  and  we  kiss  them 
and  congratulate  them,  and  standing  on  the 
doorstep  throw  rice  and  old  slippers,  and 
shout  good  wishes  after  them ;  and  he  waves 
his  gloved  hand  to  us,  and  she  flutters  her 
little  handkerchief  from  the  carriage  window  ; 
and  we  watch  their  smiling  faces  and  hear 
their  laughter  until  the  corner  hides  them 
from  our  view.  Then  we  go  about  our  own 
business,  and  a  short  time  passes  by ;  and 
one  day  we  meet  them  again,  and  their  faces 
have  grown  older  and  graver  ;  and  I  always 
wonder  what  the  Voice  has  told  them  during 
that  little  while  that  they  have  been  absent 
from  our  sight.  But  of  course  it  would  not 
do  to  ask  them.  Nor  would  they  answer 
truly  if  we  did." 


Management  of  Women     141 

My  friend  laughed,  and  leaving  the  win- 
dow took  her  place  beside  the  tea-things, 
and,  other  callers  dropping  in,  we  fell  to  talk 
of  pictures,  plays,  and  people. 

But  I  felt  it  would  be  unwise  to  act  on 
her  sole  advice,  much  as  I  have  always  val 
ued  her  opinion. 

A  woman  takes  life  too  seriously.  It  is  a 
serious  affair  to  most  of  us,  the  Lord  knows. 
That  is  why  it  is  well  not  to  take  it  more 
seriously  than   need  be. 

Little  Jack  and  little  Jill  fall  down  the 
hill,  hurting  their  little  knees  and  their  little 
noses,  spilling  the  hard-earned  water.  We 
are  very  philosophical. 

"  Oh,  don't  cry  !  "  we  tell  them  ;  "  that  is 
babyish.  Little  boys  and  little  girls  mui't 
learn  to  bear  pain.  Up  you  get,  fill  the. 
pail  again,  and  try  once  more." 

Little  Jack  and  Httle  Jill  rub  their  dirty 
knuckles  into  their  little  eyes,  looking  rue- 
fully at  their  bloody  little  knees  and  trot 
back  with  the  pail.  We  laugh  at  them,  but 
not  ill-naturedly. 

"  Poor  little  souls,"  we  say ;  "  how  they 
did  hullabaloo  !  One  might  have  thought 
they  were  half-killed.     And  it  was   only  a 


142        On  the  Care  and 

broken  crown,  after  all.  What  a  fuss  chil- 
dren make  !  "  We  bear  with  much  stoicism 
the  fall  of  little  Jack  and  little  Jill. 

But  when  we  —  grown-up  Jack  with 
moustache  turning  grey ;  grown-up  Jill 
with  the  first  faint  "  crow's  feet  "  showing  — 
when  we  tumble  down  the  hill,  and  our  pail 
is  spilt,  ye  Heavens !  what  a  tragedy  has 
happened  1  Put  out  the  stars,  turn  off  the 
sun,  suspend  the  laws  of  nature.  Mr.  Jack 
and  Mrs.  Jill,  coming  down  the  hill,  —  what 
they  were  doing  on  the  hill  we  will  not  in- 
quire, —  have  slipped  over  a  stone,  placed 
there  surely  by  the  evil  powers  of  the  uni- 
verse. Mr.  Jack  and  Mrs.  Jill  have 
bumped  their  silly  heads.  Mr.  Jack  and 
Mrs.  Jill  have  hurt  their  little  hearts,  and 
stand  marvelling  that  the  world  can  go 
about  its  business  in  the  face  of  such 
disaster. 

Don't  take  the  matter  quite  so  seri- 
ously. Jack  and  Jill.  You  have  spilled 
your  happiness ;  you  must  toil  up  the  hill 
again  and  refill  the  pail.  Carry  it  more 
carefally  next  time.  What  were  you  doing  ? 
Playing  some  fool's  trick,  I  '11  be  bound. 

A  laugh  and  a  sigh,  a  kiss  and  good-bye. 


Management  of  Women     143 

is  our  life.  Is  it  worth  so  much  fretting  ? 
It  is  a  merry  life  on  the  whole.  Courage, 
comrade.  A  campaign  cannot  be  all  drum 
and  fife  and  stirrup-cup.  The  marching 
and  the  fighting  must  come  into  it  some- 
v/here.  There  are  pleasant  bivouacs  among 
the  vineyards,  merry  nights  around  the  camp- 
fires.  White  hands  wave  a  welcome  to  us ; 
bright  eyes  dim  at  our  going.  Would  you 
run  from  the  battle-music  ?  What  have 
you  to  complain  of?  Forward:  the  medal 
to  some,  the  surgeon's  knife  to  others  ;  to 
all  of  us,  sooner  or  later,  six  foot  of  mother 
earth.  What  are  you  afraid  of?  Courage, 
comrade. 

There  is  a  mean  between  basking  through 
life  with  the  smiling  contentment  of  the 
alligator,  and  shivering  through  it  with  the 
aggressive  sensibility  of  the  Lama  deter- 
mined to  die  at  every  cross  word.  To  bear 
it  as  a  man  we  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man. 
My  philosophic  friend,  seek  not  to  comfort 
a  brother  standing  by  the  coffin  of  his  child 
with  the  cheery  suggestion  that  it  will  be  all 
the  same  a  hundred  years  hence,  because,  for 
one  thing,  the  observation  is  not  true  :  the 
man  is  changed  for  all  eternity,  —  possibly 


144         ^^  ^^^  CsLve  and 

for  the  better,  but  don't  add  that.  A  sol- 
dier with  a  bullet  in  his  neck  is  never  quite 
the  man  he  was.  But  he  can  laugh  and  he 
can  talk,  drink  his  wine  and  ride  his  horse. 
Now  and  again,  towards  evening,  when  the 
weather  is  trying,  the  sickness  will  come 
upon  him.  You  will  find  him  on  a  couch 
in  a  dark  corner. 

"  Hallo!  old  fellow,  anything  up?  " 
"  Oh,  just  a  twinge,  the  old  wound,  you 
know.     I  will  be  better  in  a  little  while." 

Shut  the  door  of  the  dark  room  quietly. 
I  should  not  stay  even  to  sympathise  with 
him  if  I  were  you.  The  men  will  be  com- 
ing to  screw  the  coffin  down  soon.  I  think 
he  would  like  to  be  alone  with  it  till  then. 
Let  us  leave  him.  He  will  come  back  to 
the  club  later  on  in  the  season.  For  a  while 
we  may  have  to  give  him  another  ten  points 
or  so,  but  he  will  soon  get  back  his  old 
form.  Now  and  again,  when  he  meets  the 
other  fellows'  boys  shouting  on  the  towing- 
path  ;  when  Brown  rushes  up  the  drive, 
paper  in  hand,  to  tell  him  how  that  young 
scapegrace  Jim  has  won  his  Cross  ;  when 
he  is  congratulating  Jones's  eldest  on  having 
passed  with  honours,  —  the  old  wound  may 


Management  of  Women     145 

give  him  a  nasty  twinge.  But  the  pain 
will  pass  away.  He  will  laugh  at  our 
stories  and  tell  us  his  own  ;  eat  his  dinner, 
play  his  rubber.      It  is  only  a  wound. 

Tommy  can  never  be  ours  ;  Jenny  does 
not  love  us.  We  cannot  afford  claret,  so 
we  shall  have  to  drink  beer.  Well,  what 
would  you  have  us  do  ?  Yes,  let  us  curse 
Fate,  by  all  means  ;  some  one  to  curse  is 
always  useful.  Let  us  cry  and  wring  our 
hands  —  for  how  long  ?  The  dinner-bell 
will  ring  soon,  and  the  Smiths  are  coming. 
We  shall  have  to  talk  about  the  opera  and 
the  picture-galleries.  Quick,  where  is  the 
eau-de-Cologne?  where  are  the  curling 
tongs  ?  Or  would  you  we  committed  sui- 
cide ?  Is  it  worth  while  ?  Only  a  few 
more  years,  —  perhaps  to-morrow,  by  aid 
of  a  piece  of  orange  peel  or  a  broken  chim- 
ney pot,  —  and  Fate  will  save  us  all  that 
trouble. 

Or  shall  we,  as  sulky  children,  mope  day 
after  day  ?  We  are  a  broken-hearted  little 
Jack  —  little  Jill.  We  shall  never  smile 
again  ;  we  shall  pine  away  and  die,  and  be 
buried  in  the  spring.  The  world  is  sad,  and 
life  so  cruel,  and  heaven  so  cold.  Oh,  dear.' 
oh,  dear !  Vv'e  have  hurt  ourselves. 


146         On  the  Care  and 

We  whimper  and  whine  at  every  pain. 
In  old  strong  days  men  faced  real  dangers, 
real  troubles,  every  hour ;  they  had  no  time 
to  cry.  Death  and  disaster  stood  ever  at  the 
door.  Men  were  contemptuous  of  them. 
Now  in  each  snug  protected  villa  we  set  to 
work  to  make  wounds  out  of  scratches. 
Every  headache  becomes  an  agony,  every 
heartache  a  tragedy.  It  took  a  murdered 
father,  a  drowned  sweetheart,  a  dishonoured 
mother,  a  ghost,  and  a  slaughtered  Prime 
Minister  to  produce  the  emotions  in  Hamlet 
that  a  modern  minor  poet  obtains  from  a 
chorus  girl's  frown,  or  a  temporary  slump 
on  the  Stock  Exchange.  Like  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge,  we  feel  it  more.  The  lighter  and 
easier  life  gets,  the  more  seriously  we  go  out 
to  meet  it.  The  boatmen  of  Ulysses  faced 
the  thunder  and  the  sunshine  alike  with 
frolic  welcome.  We  modern  sailors  have 
grown  more  sensitive.  The  sunshine  scorches 
us ;  the  rain  chills  us.  We  meet  both  with 
loud  self-pity. 

Thinking  these  thoughts,  I  sought  a 
second  friend,  —  a  man  whose  breezy  com- 
mon-sense has  often  helped  me,  —  and  him 
likewise  I  questioned  on  this  subject  of 
honeymoons. 


Management  of  Women     147 

"  My  dear  boy,"  Ke  replied,  "  take  my 
advice :  if  ever  you  get  married,  arrange  it 
so  that  the  honeymoon  sliall  only  last  a 
week,  and  let  it  be  a  bustling  week  into  the 
bargain.  Take  a  Cook's  circular  tour.  Get 
married  on  the  Saturday  morning,  cut  the 
breakfast  and  all  that  foolishness,  and  catch 
the  eleven-ten  from  Charing  Cross  to  Paris. 
Take  her  up  the  Eiffel  Tower  on  Sunday. 
Lunch  at  Fontainebleau.  Dine  at  the 
Maison  Doree,  and  show  her  the  Moulin 
Rouge  in  the  evening.  Take  the  night 
train  for  Lucerne.  Devote  Monday  and 
Tuesday  to  doing  Switzerland,  and  get  into 
Rome  by  Thursday  morning,  taking  the 
Italian  lakes  en  route.  On  Friday  cross  to 
Marseilles,  and  from  there  push  along  to 
Monte  Carlo.  Let  her  have  a  flutter  at  the 
tables.  Start  early  Saturday  morning  for 
Spain,  cross  the  Pyrenees  on  mules,  and 
rest  at  Bordeaux  on  Sunday.  Get  back  to 
Paris  on  Monday  (Monday  is  always  a  good 
day  for  the  opera),  and  on  Tuesday  evening 
you  will  be  at  home  and  glad  to  get  there. 
Don't  give  her  time  to  criticise  you  until 
she  has  got  used  to  you.  No  man  will  bear 
unprotected  exposure  to  a  young  girl's  eyes. 


148        On  the  Care  and 

The  honeymoon  is  the  matrimonial  micro- 
scope. Wobble  it.  Confuse  it  with  many 
objects.  Cloud  it  with  other  interests. 
Don't  sit  still  to  be  examined.  BesideSj 
remember  that  a  man  always  appears  at  his 
best  when  active,  and  a  woman  at  her  worst. 
Bustle  her,  my  dear  boy,  bustle  her :  I  don'v 
care  who  she  may  be.  Give  her  plenty  of 
luggage  to  look  after  ;  make  her  catch  trains. 
Let  her  see  the  average  husband  sprawling 
comfortably  over  the  railway  cushions,  while 
his  wife  has  to  sit  bolt  upright  in  the  corner 
left  to  her.  Let  her  hear  how  other  men 
swear.  Let  her  smell  other  men's  tobacco. 
Hurry  up,  and  get  her  accustomed  quickly 
to  the  sight  of  mankind.  Then  she  will  be 
less  surprised  and  shocked  as  she  grows  to 
know  you.  One  of  the  best  fellows  I  ever 
knew  spoilt  his  married  life  beyond  repair 
by  a  long  quiet  honeymoon.  They  went 
off  for  a  month  to  a  lonely  cottage  in  some 
heaven-forsaken  spot,  where  never  a  soul 
came  near  them,  and  never  a  thing  happened 
but  morning,  afternoon,  and  night.  There 
for  thirty  days  she  overhauled  him.  When 
he  yawned  —  and  he  yawned  pretty  often,  I 
guess,  during  that  month  —  she  thought  of 


Management  of  Women     149 

the  size  of  his  mouth,  and  when  he  put  his 
heels  upon  the  fender  she  sat  and  brooded 
upon  the  shape  of  his  feet.  At  meal-time, 
not  feeling  hungry  herself,  having  nothing 
to  do  to  make  her  hungry,  she  would  oc- 
cupy herself  with  watching  him  eat ;  and  at 
night,  not  feeling  sleepy  for  the  same  reason, 
she  would  lie  awake  and  listen  to  his  snoring. 
After  the  first  day  or  two  he  grew  tired  of 
talking  nonsense,  and  she  of  listening  to  it 
(it  sounded  nonsense  now  they  could  speak 
it  aloud ;  they  had  fancied  it  poetry  when 
they  had  had  to  whisper  it) ;  and  having  no 
other  subject,  as  yet,  of  common  interest, 
they  would  sit  and  stare  in  front  of  them  in 
silence.  One  day  some  trifle  irritated  him 
and  he  swore.  On  a  busy  railway  platform, 
or  in  a  crowded  hotel,  she  would  have  said, 
*  Oh  1 '  and  they  would  both  have  laughed. 
From  that  echoing  desert  the  silly  words 
rose  up  in  widening  circles  towards  the  sky, 
and  that  night  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 
Bustle  them,  my  dear  boy,  bustle  them. 
"We  all  like  each  other  better,  the  less  we 
think  about  one  another,  and  the  honey- 
moon is  an  exceptionally  critical  time. 
Bustle  her,  my  dear  boy,  bustle  her." 


150        On  the  Care  and 

My  very  worst  honeymoon  experience 
took  place  in  the  South  of  England  in  eigh- 
teen hundred  and  —  well,  never  mind  the 
exact  date,  let  us  say  a  few  years  ago.  I  was 
a  shy  young  man  at  that  time.  Many 
complain  of  my  reserve  to  this  day,  but  then 
some  girls  expect  too  much  from  a  man. 
We  all  have  our  shortcomings.  Even  then, 
however,  I  was  not  so  shy  as  she.  We  had 
to  travel  from  Lyndhurst  in  the  New  Forest 
to  Ventnor,  an  awkward  bit  of  cross-country 
work  in  those  days. 

"It's  so  fortunate  you  are  going  too,'* 
said  her  aunt  to  me  on  the  Tuesday ; 
"  Minnie  is  always  so  nervous  travelling 
alone.  You  will  be  able  to  look  after  her, 
and  I  sha'n't  be  anxious." 

I  said  it  would  be  a  pleasure,  and  at 
the  time  I  honestly  thought  it.  On  the 
Wednesday  I  went  down  to  the  coach  office 
and  booked  two  places  for  Lymington, 
from  where  we  took  the  steamer.  I  had 
not  a  suspicion  of  trouble. 

The  booking-clerk  was  an  elderly  man. 
He  said,  — 

"  I  've  got  the  box  seat,  and  the  end 
place  on  the  back  bench." 


Management  of  Women     151 

I  said,  "  Oh,  can't  I  have  two  together  ?  " 

He  was  a  kindly  looking  old  fellow.  He 
winked  at  me.  I  wondered  all  the  way 
home  why  he  had  winked  at  me.  He 
said,  — 

"  I  '11  manage  it  somehow." 

I  said,  "It's  very  kind  of  you,  I'm 
sure." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  He 
struck  me  as  familiar,  but  well-intentioned. 
He  said,  — 

"  We  have  all  of  us  been  there." 

I  thought  he  was  alluding  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight.     I  said, — 

"And  this  is  the  best  time  of  the  year 
for  it,  so  I  'm  told."  It  was  early  summer 
time. 

He  said,  "  It 's  all  right  in  summer,  and 
it 's  good  enough  in  winter  —  ivhile  it  lasts. 
You  make  the  most  of  it,  young  'un  ; "  and 
he  slapped  me  on  the  back  and  laughed. 

He  would  have  irritated  me  in  another 
minute.     I  paid  for  the  seats  and  left  him. 

At  half-past  eight  the  next  morning 
Minnie  and  I  started  for  the  coach-office. 
I  call  her  Minnie,  not  with  any  wish  to  be 
impertinent,  but  because   I   have   forgotten 


152  On  the  Care  and 

her  surname.  It  must  be  ten  years  since  I 
last  saw  her.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  too, 
with  those  brown  eyes  that  always  cloud 
before  they  laugh.  Her  aunt  did  not  drive 
down  with  us  as  she  had  intended  in  conse- 
quence of  a  headache.  She  was  good  enough 
to  say  she  felt  every  confidence  in  me. 

The  old  booking-clerk  caught  sight  of  us 
when  we  were  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  and  drew  to  us  the  attention  of  the 
coachman,  who  communicated  the  fact  of 
our  approach  to  the  gathered  passengers. 
Everybody  left  off  talking  and  waited  for 
us.  The  boots  seized  his  horn,  and  blew 
—  one  could  hardly  call  it  a  blast ;  it  would 
be  difficult  to  say  what  he  blew.  He  put 
his  heart  into  it,  but  not  sufficient  wind.  I 
think  his  intention  was  to  welcome  us,  bu\: 
it  suggested  rather  a  feeble  curse.  Wc 
learnt  subsequently  that  he  was  a  beginnei 
on  the  instrument. 

In  some  mysterious  way  the  whole  affair 
appeared  to  be  our  party.  The  booking- 
clerk  bustled  up  and  helped  Minnie  from 
the  cart.  I  feared,  for  a  moment,  he  was 
going  to  kiss  her.  The  coachman  grinned 
when    I  said  good -morning  to    him.     The 


Management  of  Women     1 5  3 

passengers  grinned,  the  boots  grinned.  Two 
chamber-maids  and  a  waiter  came  out  from 
the  hotel,  and  they  grinned.  I  drew  Minnie 
aside  and  whispered  to  her.      I  said, — 

"  There  's  something  funny  about  us.  All 
these  people  are  grinning," 

She  walked  round  me,  and  I  walked 
round  her,  but  we  could  neither  of  us  dis- 
cover anything  amusing  about  the  other. 
The  booking-clerk  said,  — 

"  It 's  all  right.  I  've  got  you  young 
people  two  places  just  behind  the  box-seat. 
We  '11  have  to  put  five  of  you  on  that  seat. 
You  won't  mind  sitting  a  bit  close,  will 
you.^ 

The  booking-clerk  winked  at  the  coach- 
man, the  coachman  winked  at  the  passengers, 
the  passengers  winked  at  one  another,  — 
those  of  them  who  could  wink,  —  and  every- 
body laughed.  The  two  chamber-maids 
became  hysterical,  and  had  to  cling  to  each 
other  for  support.  With  the  exception  of 
Minnie  and  myself,  it  seemed  to  be  the 
merriest  coach  party  ever  assembled  at 
Lyndhurst. 

We  had  taken  our  places,  and  I  was  still 
busy  trying  to  fathom  the  joke,  when  a  stout 


154         On  the  Care  and 

lady  appeared  on  the  scene  and  demanded 
to  know  her  place. 

The  clerk  explained  to  her  that  it  was  in 
the  middle  behind  the  driver. 

"We've  had  to  put  five  of  you  in  that 
seat,"  added  the  clerk. 

The  stout  lady  looked  at  the  seat. 

"  Five  of  us  can't  squeeze  into  that,"  she 
said. 

Five  of  her  certainly  could  not.  Four 
ordinary-sized  people  with  her  would  find  it 
tight. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  clerk,  "you 
can  have  the  end  place  on  the  back  seat." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the  stout 
lady,  "  I  booked  my  seat  on  Monday,  and 
you  told  me  any  of  the  front  places  were 
vacant." 

"77/  take  the  back  place,"  I  said;  "I 
don't  mind  it." 

"You  stop  where  you  are,  young  'un," 
said  the  clerk,  firmly,  "  and  don't  be  a  fool. 
I  '11  fix  herr 

I  objected  to  his  language,  but  hi;*  tons 
was  kindness  itself. 

"  Oh,  let  me  have  the  back  seat,"  said 
Minnie,  rising,  "I'd  so  like  it" 


Management  of  Women     155 

For  answer  the  coachman  put  both  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders.  He  was  a  heavy 
man,  and  she  sat  down  again. 

"  Now  then,  mum,"  said  the  clerk,  ad' 
dressing  the  stout  lady,  "are  you  going  up 
there  in  the  middle,  or  are  you  coming  up 
here  at  the  back  ?  " 

"  But  why  not  let  one  of  them  take  thg 
back  seat  ? "  demanded  the  stout  lady, 
pointing  her  reticule  at  Minnie  and  my- 
self; "  they  say  they  'd  like  it.  Let  them 
have  it." 

The  coachman  rose  and  addressed  his 
remarks  generally. 

"  Put  her  up  at  the  back,  or  leave  her 
behind,"  he  directed.  "  Man  and  wife  have 
never  been  separated  on  this  coach  since  I 
started  running  it  fifteen  year  ago,  and  they 
ain't  going  to  be  now." 

A  general  cheer  greeted  this  sentiment. 
The  stout  lady,  now  regarded  as  a  would-be 
blighter  of  love's  young  dream,  was  hustled 
into  the  back  seat,  the  whip  cracked,  and 
away  we  rolled. 

So  here  was  the  explanation.  We  were 
in  a  honeymoon  district  in  June,  —  the 
most  popular  month  in  the  whole  year  for 


i^6        On  the  Care  and 

marriage.  Every  two  out  of  three  couples 
found  wandering  about  the  New  Forest  in 
June  are  honeymoon  couples;  the  third  are 
going  to  be.  When  they  travel  anywhere 
it  is  to  the  Isle  of  Wight.  We  both  had 
on  new  clothes.  Our  bags  happened  to 
be  new.  By  some  evil  chance  our  very 
umbrellas  were  new.  Our  united  ages  were 
thirty-seven.  The  wonder  v/ould  have 
been  had  we  not  been  mistaken  for  a 
young    married    couple. 

A  day  of  greater  misery  I  have  rarely 
passed.  To  Minnie,  so  her  aunt  informed 
me  afterwards,  the  journey  was  the  most 
terrible  experience  of  her  life,  but  then  her 
experience  up  to  that  time  had  been  limited. 
She  was  engaged,  and  devotedly  attached,  to 
a  young  clergyman ;  I  was  madly  in  love 
with  a  somewhat  plump  girl  named  Cecilia, 
who  lived  with  her  mother  at  Hampstead. 
I  am  positive  as  to  her  living  at  Hampstead. 
I  remember  so  distinctly  my  weekly  walk 
down  the  hill  from  Church  Row  to  the 
Swiss  Cottage  station.  When  walking  down 
a  steep  hill  all  the  v/eight  of  the  body  is 
forced  into  the  toe  of  the  boot :  and  when 
the  boot  is  two  sizes  too  small  for  you,  tind 


Management  of  Women     1 5  7 

you  have  been  living  in  it  since  the  early 
afternoon,  you  remember  a  thing  like  that. 
But  all  my  recollections  of  Cecilia  are  pain- 
ful, and  it  is  needless  to  pursue  them. 

Our  coach-load  was  a  homely  party,  and 
some  of  the  jokes  were  broad,  —  harmless 
enough  in  themselves,  had  Minnie  and  I 
really  been  the  married  couple  we  were  sup- 
posed to  be,  but  even  in  that  case  unneces- 
sary. I  can  only  hope  that  Minnie  did  not 
understand  them.  Anyhow,  she  looked  as 
if  she  did  n't. 

I  forget  where  we  stopped  for  lunch,  but 
I  remember  that  lamb  and  mint  sauce  was 
on  the  table,  and  that  the  circumstance  af- 
forded the  greatest  delight  to  all  the  party, 
with  the  exception  of  the  stout  lady,  who 
was  still  indignant,  Minnie,  and  myself. 
About  my  behaviour  as  a  bridegroom  opin- 
ion appeared  to  be  divided.  "  He  's  a  bit 
stand-offish  with  her,"  I  overheard  one  lady 
remark  to  her  husband ;  "  I  like  to  see  'em 
a  bit  kittenish  myself"  A  young  waitress, 
on  the  other  hand,  I  am  happy  to  say, 
showed  more  sense  of  natural  reserve. 
"  Well,  I  respect  him  for  it,"  she  was  saying 
to  the  bar-maid,  as  we  passed  through  the 


158        On  the  Care  and 

hall ;  "I'd  just  hate  to  be  fuzzled  over  with 
everybody  looking  on."  Nobody  took  the 
trouble  to  drop  their  voices  for  our  benefit. 
We  might  have  been  a  pair  of  prJze  love- 
birds on  exhibition,  the  way  we  were  openly 
discussed.  By  the  majority  we  were  clearly 
regarded  as  a  sulky  young  couple  who  would 
not  go  through  their  tricks. 

I  have  often  wondered  since  how  a  real 
married  couple  would  have  faced  the  situa- 
tion. Possibly,  had  we  consented  to  give  a 
short  display  of  marital  affection,  "by  de- 
sire," we  might  have  been  left  in  r-^ace  for 
the  remainder  of  the  journey. 

Our  reputation  preceded  us  on  to  the 
steamboat.  Minnie  begged  and  praj  ed  me 
to  let  it  be  known  we  were  not  n?arried. 
How  I  was  to  let  it  be  known,  exc  pt  by 
requesting  the  captain  to  summon  the  whole 
ship's  company  on  deck,  and  then  making 
them  a  short  speech,  I  could  not  think. 
Minnie  said  she  could  not  bear  it  any 
longer,  and  retired  to  the  ladies'  cabin.  She 
went  off  crying.  Her  trouble  was  attributed 
by  crew  and  passengers  to  my  coldness. 
One  fool  planted  himself  opposite  me  with 
his  legs  apart,  and  shook  his  head  at  me. 


Management  of  Women     159 

"  Go  down  and  comfort  her,"  he  began. 
"  Take  an  old  man's  advice.  Put  your 
arms  around  her."  (He  was  one  of  those 
sentimental  idiots.)  "  Tell  her  that  you 
love  her." 

I  told  him  to  go  and  hang  himself  with 
so  much  vigour  that  he  all  but  fell  over- 
board. He  was  saved  by  a  poultry  crate: 
I  had  no  luck  that  day. 

At  Ryde  the  guard,  by  superhuman 
effort,  contrived  to  keep  us  a  carriage  to 
ourselves.  I  gave  him  a  shilling,  because  I 
did  not  know  what  else  to  do.  I  would 
have  made  it  half-a-sovereign  if  he  had  put 
eight  other  passengers  in  with  us.  At  every 
station  people  came  to  the  window  to  look 
in  at  us. 

I  handed  Minnie  over  to  her  father  on 
Ventnor  platform  ;  and  I  took  the  first 
train,  the  next  morning,  to  London.  I  felt 
I  did  not  want  to  see  her  again  for  a  little 
while  ;  and  I  felt  convinced  she  could  do 
without  a  visit  from  me.  Our  next  meeting 
took  place  the  week  before  her  marriage. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  spend  your 
honeymoon  ?  "  I  asked  her ;  ^*  in  the  New 
Forest? " 


i6o         On  the  Care  and 

"  No,"  she  replied  ;  "  nor  in  the  Isle  o? 
Wight." 

To  enjoy  the  humour  of  an  incident  one 
must  be  at  some  distance  from  it  either  in 
time  or  relationship.  I  remember  watching 
an  amusing  scene  in  Whitefield  Street,  just 
off  Tottenham  Court  Road,  one  winter's 
Saturday"  night.  A  woman  —  a  rather  re- 
spectable-looking woman,  had  her  hat  only 
been  on  straight  —  had  just  been  shot  ouv 
of  a  public-house.  She  was  very  dignified 
and  very  drunk.  A  policeman  requested 
her  to  move  on.  She  called  him  "  Fellow," 
and  demanded  to  know  of  him  if  he  con- 
sidered that  was  the  proper  tone  in  which  to 
address  a  lady.  She  threatened  to  report 
him  to  her  cousin,  the  Lord  Chancellor. 

"  Yes  ;  this  way  to  the  Lord  Chancellor," 
retorted  the  policeman.  "  You  come  along 
with  me ; "  and  he  caught  hold  of  her  by 
the  arm. 

She  gave  a  lurch  and  nearly  fell.  To  save 
her  the  man  put  his  arm  round  her  waist. 
She  clasped  him  round  the  neck,  and  to- 
gether they  spun  round  two  or  three  times ; 
while  at  the  very  moment  a  piano-organ  at 
the  opposite  corner  struck  up  a  waltz. 


Management  of  Women     i6i 

"  Choose  your  partners,  gentlemen,  for 
the  next  dance,"  shouted  a  wag,  and  the 
crowd  roared. 

I  was  laughing  myself,  for  the  situation 
was  undeniably  comical,  the  constable's  ex- 
pression of  disgust  being  quite  Hogarthian, 
when  the  sight  of  a  little  girl's  face  beneath 
the  gas-lamp  stayed  me.  The  child's  look 
was  so  full  of  terror  that  I  tried  to  comfort 
her. 

"It's  only  a  drunken  woman,"  I  said; 
"he's  not  going  to  hurt  her." 

"  Please,  sir,"  was  the  answer,  "  it 's  my 
mother." 

Our  joke  is  generally  another's  pain. 
The  man  who  sits  down  on  the  tin-tack 
rarely  joins  in  the  laugh. 


OS   THE   MINDING   OF   OTHER 
PEOPLE'S   BUSINESS 


I  WALKED  one  bright  September  morn- 
ing in  the  Strand.  I  love  London  best 
in  the  autumn.  Then  only  can  one  see  the 
gleam  of  its  white  pavements,  the  bold,  un- 
broken outlines  of  its  streets.  I  love  the 
cool  vistas  one  comes  across  of  mornings  in 
the  parks,  the  soft  twilights  that  linger  in  the 
empty  bye-streets.  In  June  the  restaurant 
manager  is  off-hand  with  me;  I  feel  I  am 
but  in  his  way.  In  August  he  spreads  for 
me  the  table  by  the  window,  pours  out  for 
me  my  wine  with  his  own  fat  hands.  I  cannot 
doubt  his  regard  for  me :  my  foolish  jealousies 
are  stilled.  Do  I  care  for  a  drive  after  din- 
ner through  the  caressing  night  air,  I  can 
climb  the  omnibus  stair  without  a  preliminary 
fight  upon  the  curb,  can  sit  with  easy  con- 
science  and  unsquashed   body,   not  feeling 


Other  People's  Business    163 

I  have  depri/ed  some  hot,  tired  woman  of  a 
seat.  Do  I  desire  the  play,  no  harsh,  for- 
bidding "  House  full  "  board  repels  me  from 
the  door.  During  her  season,  London,  a 
harassed  hostess,  has  no  time  for  us,  her 
intimates.  Her  rooms  are  overcrowded,  her 
servants  overworked,  her  dinners  hurriedly 
cooked,  her  tone  insincere.  In  the  spring, 
to  be  truthful,  the  great  lady  condescends  to 
be  somewhat  vulgar — noisy  and  ostentatious. 
Not  till  the  guests  are  departed  is  she  herself 
again,  —  the  London  that  we,  her  children, 
love. 

Have  you,  gentle  Reader,  ever  seen  Lon- 
don ?  —  not  the  London  of  the  waking  day, 
coated  with  crawling  life,  as  a  blossom  with 
blight,  but  the  London  of  the  morning,  freed 
from  her  rags,  the  patient  city  clad  in  mists. 
Get  you  up  with  the  dawn  on  Sunday  in 
summer  time.  Wake  none  else,  but  creep 
down  stealthily  into  the  kitchen,  and  make 
your  own  breakfast.  Be  careful  you  stumble 
not  over  the  cat.  She  will  worm  herself 
insidiously  between  your  legs.  It  is  her  way  ; 
she  means  it  in  friendship.  Neither  bark 
your  shins  against  the  coal-box.  Why  the 
kitchen  coal-box  has  its  fixed  place  in  the 


164      On  the  Minding  of 

direct  line  between  the  kitchen  door  and  the 
gas-bracket  I  cannot  say,  I  merely  know  it 
as  an  universal  law ;  and  I  would  that  you 
escaped  that  coal-box,  lest  the  frame  of  mind 
I  desire  for  you  on  this  Sabbath  morning  be 
dissipated. 

A  spoon  to  stir  your  tea  I  fear  you  must 
dispense  with.  Knives  and  forks  you  will 
discover  in  plenty ;  blacking-brushes  you 
will  put  your  hand  upon  in  every  drawer  ;  of 
emery  paper,  did  one  require  it,  there  are 
reams ;  but  it  is  a  point  with  every  house- 
keeper that  the  spoons  be  hidden  in  a  different 
place  each  night.  If  anybody  excepting  her- 
self can  find  them  in  the  morning,  it  is  a  slur 
upon  her.  No  matter,  a  stick  of  firewood, 
sharpened  at  one  end,  makes  an  excellent 
substitute. 

Your  breakfast  done,  turn  out  the  gas, 
remount  the  stairs  quietly,  open  gently  the 
front  door  and  slip  out.  You  will  find  your- 
self in  an  unknown  land.  A  strange  city 
has  grown  round  you  in  the  night.  The 
sweet  long  streets  lie  silent  in  the  sunlight. 
Not  a  living  thing  is  to  be  seen  save  some 
lean  Tom  that  slinks  from  his  gutter  feast 
as   you  approach.       From  some  tree  there 


Other  People's  Business     165 

will  sound  perhaps  a  fretful  chirp :  but  the 
London  sparrow  is  no  early  riser;  he  is 
but  talking  in  his  sleep.  The  slow  tramp 
of  an  unseen  policeman  draws  near  or 
dies  away.  The  clatter  of  your  own  foot- 
steps goes  with  you,  troubling  you.  You 
find  yourself  trying  to  walk  softly,  as  one 
does  in  echoing  cathedrals.  A  voice  is  every- 
where about  you  whispering  to  you,  "  Hush." 
Is  this  million-breasted  City,  then,  some 
tender  Artemis,  seeking  to  keep  her  babes 
asleep.  "  Hush,  you  careless  wayfarer ;  do 
not  waken  them.  Walk  lighter ;  they  are 
so  tired,  these  myriad  children  of  mine, 
sleeping  in  my  thousand  arms.  They  are 
overworked  and  overworried ;  so  many  of 
them  are  sick,  so  many  fretful,  many  of  them, 
alas  !  so  full  of  naughtiness.  But  all  of  them 
so  tired.  Hush  !  they  worry  me  with  their 
noise  and  riot  when  they  are  awake.  They 
are  so  good  now  they  are  asleep.  Walk 
lighter;  let  them  rest." 

Where  the  ebbing  tide  flows  softly  through 
worn  arches  to  the  sea,  you  may  hear  the 
stone-faced  City  talking  to  the  restless  waters : 
"  Why  will  you  never  stay  with  me  ?  Why 
come  but  to  go  ?  ** 


1 66      On  the  Minding  of 

*'  I  cannot  say  ;  I  do  not  understand.  From 
the  deep  sea  I  come,  but  only  as  a  bird  loosed 
from  a  child's  hand  with  a  cord.  When  she 
calls  I  must  return." 

"  It  is  so  with  these  children  of"  mine. 
They  come  to  me,  I  know  not  whence.  1 
nurse  them  for  a  little  while,  till  a  hand  I  do 
not  see  plucks  them  back.  And  others  take 
their  places." 

Through  the  still  air  there  passes  a  ripple 
of  sound.  The  sleeping  City  stirs  with  a  faint 
sigh.  A  distant  milk-cart  rattling  by  raises  a 
thousand  echoes ;  it  is  the  vanguard  of  a 
yoked  army.  Soon  from  every  street  there 
rises  the  soothing  cry,  "  Mee'hilk — mee'hilk." 
London,  like  some  Gargantuan  babe,  is  awake, 
crying  for  its  milk.  These  be  the  white- 
smocked  nurses  hastening  with  its  morning 
nourishment.  The  early  church  bells  ring. 
"You  have  had  your  milk,  little  London. 
Now  come  and  say  your  prayers.  Another 
week  has  just  begun,  baby  London.  God 
knows  what  will  happen ;  say  your  prayers." 

One  by  one  the  little  creatures  creep  from 
behind  the  blinds  into  the  streets.  The 
brooding  tenderness  is  vanished  from  the 
City's  face.     The  fretful   noises  of  the  day 


Other  People's  Business    167 

have  come  again.  Silence,  her  lover  of  the 
night,  kisses  her  stone  lips  and  steals  away. 
And  you,  gentle  Reader,  return  home,  gar- 
landed with  the  self-sufficiency  of  the  early 
riser. 

But  it  was  of  a  certain  week-day  morning 
In  the  Strand  that  I  was  thinking.  I  was 
standing  outside  Gatti's  Restaurant,  where  I 
had  just  breakfasted,  listening  leisurely  to  an 
argument  between  an  indignant  lady  passen- 
ger, presumably  of  Irish  extraction,  and  an 
omnibus  conductor. 

"  For  what  d'  ye  want  thin  to  paint  Put- 
ney on  ye'r  bus,  if  ye  don't  go  to  Putney  ?  " 
said  the  lady. 

"  We  do  go  to  Putney,"  said  the  con- 
ductor. 

"  Thin  why  did  ye  put  me  out  here  ? " 
"  I  did  n't  put  you  out ;  yer  got  out." 
"  Shure,  did  n't  the  gintleman  in  the  corner 
tell  me  I  was  comin'  further  away  from  Put- 
ney ivery  minit  ?  " 

"  Wal,  and  so  yer  was." 
"  Thin  whoy  did  n't  you  tell  me  ?  " 
"  How  was  I  to  know  yer  wanted  to  go  to 
Putney  ?     Yer  sings  out  Putney,  and  I  stops 
and  in  yer  dumps." 


1 68      On  the  Minding  of 

"And  for  what  d'ye  think  I  called  oui 
Putney,  thin?" 

"  'Cause  it 's  my  name,  or  rayther  the  bus's 
name  !     This  'ere  is  a  Putney." 

"  How  can  it  be  a  Putney  whin  it  is  n't 
goin'  to  Putney,  ye  gomerhawk  ?  " 

"Ain't  you  an  Hirishwoman  ?  "  retorted 
the  conductor.  " 'Course  yer  are.  But  yer 
are  n't  always  goin'  to  Ireland.  We  're  goin' 
to  Putney  in  time,  only  we're  a-going  to 
Liverpool  Street  fust.     'Igherup,  Jim." 

The  bus  moved  on,  and  I  was  about  to 
cross  the  road,  when  a  man,  muttering  sav- 
agely to  himself,  walked  into  me.  He  would 
have  swept  past  me  had  I  not,  recognising 

him,  arrested  him.     It  was  my  friend  B , 

a  busy  editor  of  magazines  and  journals.  It 
was  some  seconds  before  he  appeared  able  to 
struggle  out  of  his  abstraction  and  remember 
himself.  "  Halloo  !  "  he  then  said,  "  who 
would  have  thought  of  stcAng  you  here?  " 

"  To  judge  by  the  way  you  were  walking," 
I  replied,  "  one  would  imagine  the  Strand  the 
last  place  in  which  you  expected  to  see  any 
human  being.  Do  you  ever  walk  into  a 
short-tempered,  muscular  man?" 

"  Did  I  walk  into  you  ?  "  he  asked,  sur- 
prised. 


Other  People's  Business    169 

"  Well,  not  right  in,"  I  answered,  "  if  we 
are  to  be  literal.  You  walked  on  to  me ; 
if  I  had  not  stopped  you,  I  suppose  you 
would  have  walked  over  me." 

"It  is  this  confounded  Christmas  busi- 
ness," he  explained.  "It  drives  me  off  my 
head." 

"  I  have  heard  Christmas  advanced  as  an 
excuse  for  many  things,"  I  replied,  "  but  not 
early  in  September." 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  he  an- 
swered ;  "  we  are  in  the  middle  of  our  Christ- 
mas number.  I  am  working  day  and  night 
upon  it.  By  the  bye,"  he  added,  "  that  puts 
me  in  mind.  I  am  arranging  a  symposium, 
and  I  want  you  to  join.  *  Should  Christ- 
mas'" —  I  interrupted  him. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  I  said,  "  I  commenced 
my  journalistic  career  when  I  was  eighteen, 
and  I  have  continued  it  at  intervals  ever  since. 
I  have  written  about  Christmas  from  the  sen- 
timental point  of  view  ;  I  have  analysed  it 
from  the  philosophical  point  of  view ;  and  I 
have  scarified  it  from  the  sarcastic  standpoint. 
I  have  treated  Christmas  humourously  for  the 
Comics,  and  sympathetically  for  the  Provin- 
cial Weeklies.     I  have  said  all  that  is  worth 


170      On  the  Minding  of 

saying  on  the  subject  of  Christmas  —  maybe 
a  trifle  more.  I  have  told  the  new-fashioned 
Christmas  story  —  you  know  the  sort  of 
thing  :  your  heroine  tries  to  understand  her- 
self, and,  failing,  runs  off  with  the  man  who 
began  as  the  hero ;  your  good  woman  turns 
out  to  be  really  bad  when  one  comes  to  know 
her ;  while  the  villain,  the  only  decent  person 
in  the  story,  dies  with  an  enigmatic  sentence 
on  his  lips  that  looks  as  if  it  meant  some- 
thing, but  which  you  yourself  would  be  sorry 
to  have  to  explain.  I  have  also  written  the 
old-fashioned  Christmas  story  —  you  know 
that  also :  you  begin  with  a  good  old-fash- 
ioned snowstorm ;  you  have  a  good  old- 
fashioned  squire,  and  he  lives  in  a  good 
old-fashioned  Hall;  you  work  in  a  good 
old-fashioned  murder ;  and  end  up  with  a 
good  old-fashioned  Christmas  dinner.  I 
have  gathered  Christmas  guests  together 
round  the  crackling  logs  to  tell  ghost  stories 
to  each  other  on  Christmas  Eve,  while  with- 
out the  wind  howled,  as  it  always  does  on 
these  occasions,  at  its  proper  cue.  I  have 
sent  children  to  Heaven  on  Christmas  Eve 
—  it  must  be  quite  a  busy  time  for  St.  Peter, 
Christmas  morning,  so  many  good  children 


Other  People's  Business    171 

die  on  Christmas  Eve.  It  has  always  been 
a  popular  night  with  them.  I  have  revivified 
dead  lovers  and  brought  them  back  well  and 
jolly,  just  in  time  to  sit  down  to  the  Christ- 
mas dinner.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  having 
done  these  things.  At  the  time  I  thought 
them  good.  I  once  loved  currant  wine  and 
girls  with  tously  hair.  One's  views  change 
as  one  grows  older.  I  have  discussed  Christ- 
mas as  a  religious  festival.  I  have  arraigned 
it  as  a  social  incubus.  If  there  be  any  joke 
connected  with  Christmas  that  I  have  not 
already  made  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  it.  I 
have  trotted  out  the  indigestion  jokes  till  the 
sight  of  one  of  them  gives  me  indigestion 
myself  I  have  ridiculed  the  family  gather- 
ing. I  have  scoffed  at  the  Christmas  pres- 
ent. I  have  made  witty  use  of  paterfamilias 
and  his  bills.     I  have  —  " 

"  Did  I  ever  show  you,"  I  broke  off  to 
ask  as  we  were  crossing  the  Haymarket, 
"  that  little  parody  of  mine  on  Poe's  poem 
of  *  The  Bells  '  ?  It  begins  —  "  He  inter- 
rupted me  in  his  turn  — 

"  Bills,  bills,  bills,"  he  repeated. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  I  admittr.d.  "  I 
forgot  I  ever  showed  it  to  you." 


172      On  the  Minding  of 

"  You  never  did,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  how  it  begins  ?  ** 
I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  for  certain,"  he  admitted ; 
"  but  I  get,  on  an  average,  sixty-five  a-year 
submitted  to  me,  and  they  all  begin  that 
way.     I  thought  perhaps  yours  did  also." 

"  I  don't  see  how  else  it  could  begin,"  I 
retorted.  He  had  rather  annoyed  me. 
"  Besides,  it  does  n't  matter  how  a  poem 
begins.  It  is  how  it  goes  on  that  is  the  im- 
portant thing  ;  and,  anyhow,  1  'm  not  going 
to  write  you  anything  about  Christmas. 
Ask  me  to  make  you  a  new  joke  about  a 
plumber;  suggest  m.y  inventing  something 
original  and  not  too  shocking  for  a  child  to 
say  about  heaven :  propose  my  running  you 
off  a  dog  story  that  can  be  believed  by  a 
man  of  average  determination,  and  we  may 
come  to  terms.  But  on  the  subject  of 
Christmas  I  am  taking  a  rest." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  Piccadilly 
Circus. 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  he  said,  "  if  you  are 
as  sick  of  the  subject  as  I  am.  So  soon  as 
these  Christmas  numbers  are  off  my  mind, 
and  Christmas  is  over  till  next  June  at  the 


Other  People's  Business    173 

office,  I  shall  begin  it  at  home.  The  house- 
keeping is  gone  up  a  pound  a  week  already. 
I  know  what  that  means.  The  dear  little 
woman  is  saving  up  to  give  me  an  expensive 
present  that  I  don't  want.  I  think  the 
presents  are  the  worst  part  of  Christmas. 
Emma  will  give  me  a  water-colour  that  she 
has  painted  herself.  She  always  does. 
There  would  be  no  harm  in  that  if  she  did 
not  expect  me  to  hang  it  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Have  you  ever  seen  my  cousin 
Emma's  water-colours  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  think  I  have,"  I  replied. 

"  There  's  no  thinking  about  it,"  he  re- 
torted angrily.  "  They  're  not  the  sort  of 
water-colours  you   forget." 

He  apostrophised  the  Circus  generally. 

"  Why  do  people  do  these  things  ? "  he 
demanded.  "  Even  an  amateur  artist  must 
have  some  sense.  Can't  they  see  what  is 
happening?  There's  that  thing  of  hers 
hanging  in  the  passage.  I  put  it  in  the 
passage  because  there 's  not  much  Hght  in 
the  passage.  She 's  labelled  it  Reverie.  If 
she  had  called  it  Influenza  I  could  have 
understood  it.  I  asked  her  where  she  got 
the  idea  from,  and  she  said  she  saw  the  sky 


174      C)n  the  Minding  of 

like  that  one  evening  in  Norfolk.  Great 
Heavens !  then  why  did  n't  she  shut  her 
eyeSj  or  go  home  and  hide  behind  the  bed- 
curtains  ?  If  I  had  seen  a  sky  like  that  in 
Norfolk,  I  should  have  taken  the  first  train 
back  to  London.  I  suppose  the  poor  girl 
can't  help  seeing  these  things,  but  why  paint 
them  ?  " 

I  said,  "  I  suppose  painting  is  a  necessity 
to  some  natures." 

"But  why  give  the  things  to  me?"  he 
pleaded. 

I  could  offer  him  no  adequate  reason. 

"  The  idiotic  presents  that  people  give 
you  1 "  he  continued.  "  I  said  I  'd  like 
Tennyson's  poems  one  year.  They  had 
worried  me  to  know  what  I  did  want.  I 
did  n't  want  anything,  really ;  that  was  the 
only  thing  I  could  think  of  that  I  was  n't 
dead  sure  I  did  n't  want.  Well,  they  clubbed 
together,  four  of  them,  and  gave  me  Tenny- 
son in  twelve  volumes,  illustrated  with  col- 
oured photographs.  They  meant  kindly, 
of  course.  If  you  suggest  a  tobacco-pouch, 
they  give  you  a  blue  velvet  bag  capable  of 
holding  about  a  pound,  embroidered  with 
flowers,  life-size.     The  only  way  one  could 


Other  People's  Business    175 

use  it  would  be  to  put  a  strap  to  it  and  wear 
it  as  a  satchel.  Would  you  believe  it,  I 
have  got  a  velvet  smoking-jacket,  orna- 
mented with  forget-me-nots  and  butterflies 
in  silk;  I  'm  not  joking.  And  they  ask  me 
why  I  never  wear  it.  I  '11  bring  it  down  to 
the  Club  one  of  these  nights  and  wake  the 
place  up  a  bit :  it  needs  it." 

We  had  arrived  by  this  at  the  steps  of  the 
Devonshire. 

"  And  I  'm  just  as  bad,"  he  went  on, 
"  when  I  give  presents.  I  never  give  them 
what  they  want.  I  never  hit  upon  anything 
that  is  of  any  use  to  anybody.  If  I  give 
Jane  a  chinchilla  tippet,  you  may  be  certain 
chinchilla  is  the  most  out-of-date  fur  that  any 
woman  could  wear.  *  Oh  !  that  is  nice  of 
you,'  she  says  ;  '  now  that  is  just  the  very 
thing  I  wanted.  I  will  keep  it  by  me  till 
chinchilla  comes  in  again.'  I  give  the  girls 
watch-chains  when  nobody  is  wearing  watch- 
chains.  When  watch-chains  are  all  the  rage, 
I  give  them  ear-rings,  and  they  thank  me 
and  suggest  my  taking  them  to  a  fancy- 
dress  ball,  that  being  their  only  chance  to 
wear  the  confounded  things.  I  waste  money 
on  white  gloves  with   black  backs,  to  find 


176      On  the  Minding  of 

that  white  gloves  with  black  backs  stamps  a 
woman  as  suburban.  I  believe  all  the  shop- 
keepers In  London  save  their  old  stock  to 
palm  it  off  on  me  at  Christmas  time.  And 
why  does  it  always  take  half-a-dozen  people 
to  serve  you  with  a  pair  of  gloves,  I  'd  like 
to  know  ?  Only  last  week  Jane  asked  me  to 
get  her  some  gloves  for  that  last  Mansion 
House  affair.  I  was  feeling  amiable,  and  I 
thought  I  would  do  the  thing  handsom-cly. 
I  hate  going  into  a  draper's  shop  ;  every- 
body stares  at  a  man  as  if  he  were  forcing 
his  way  into  the  ladies'  department  of  a 
Turkish  bath.  One  of  those  marionette 
sort  of  men  came  up  to  jne  and  said  it  was 
a  fine  morning.  What  the  devil  did  I  want 
to  talk  about  the  morning  to  him  for  ?  I 
said  I  wanted  some  gloves.  I  described 
them  to  the  best  of  my  recollection.  1  said, 
*  I  want  them  four  buttons,  but  they  are  not 
to  be  button-gloves  ;  the  buttons  are  in  the 
middle  and  they  reach  up  to  the  elbow,  if 
you  know  what  I  mean.'  He  bowed,  and 
said  he  understood  exactly  what  I  meant, 
which  was  a  damned  sight  more  than  I  did. 
I  told  him  I  wanted  three  pair  cream  and 
three  pair  fawn-coloured,  and  the  fawn-col- 


Other  People's  Business    177 

oured  were  to  be  swedes.  He  corrected 
me.  He  said  I  meant  '  Suede.'  I  dare  say- 
he  was  right,  but  the  interruption  put  me 
off,  and  I  had  to  begin  over  again.  He 
listened  attentively  until  I  had  finished.  I 
guess  I  was  about  five  minutes  standing  with 
him  there  close  to  the  door.  He  said,  *  Is 
that  all  you  require,  sir,  this  morning  ? '  I 
said  it  was. 

"^ Thank  you,  sir,*  he  replied.  'This 
way,  please,  sir.' 

"  He  took  me  into  another  room,  and  there 
we  met  a  man  named  Jansen,  to  whom  he 
briefly  introduced  me  as  a  gentleman  who 
*  desired  gloves.'  *  Yes,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Jan- 
sen ;  '  and  what  sort  of  gloves  do  you 
desire  ? ' 

"  I  told  him  I  wanted  six  pairs  all  together, 
—  three  suede,  fawn-coloured,  and  three 
cream-coloured  —  kids. 

"  He  said,  '  Do  you  mean  kid  gloves,  sir, 
or  gloves  for  children  ? '  " 

"  He  made  me  angry  by  that.  I  told  him 
I  was  not  in  the  habit  of  using  slang.  Nor 
am  I  when  buying  gloves.  He  said  he  was 
sorry.  I  explained  to  him  about  the  but- 
tons, so  far  as  I  could  understand  it  myself^ 


178      On  the   Minding  of 

and  about  the  length.  I  asked  him  to  see 
to  it  that  the  buttons  were  sewn  on  firmly, 
and  that  the  stitching  everywhere  was  per- 
fect, adding  that  the  last  gloves  my  wife  had 
had  of  his  firm  had  been  most  unsatisfactory, 
Jane  had  impressed  upon  me  to  add  that. 
She  said  it  would  make  them  more  careful. 

"He  listened  to  me  in  rapt  ecstasy.  I 
might  have  been  music. 

"  *  And  what  size,  sir  ? '  he  asked. 

"I  had  forgotten  that.  'Oh,  sixes,'  I 
answered,  '  unless  they  are  very  stretchy  in- 
deed, in  which  case  they  had  better  be  five 
and  three-quarter.' 

"  *  Oh,  and  the  stitching  on  the  cream  is 
to  be  black,'  I  added.  That  was  another 
thing  I  had  forgotten. 

" '  Thank  you  very  much,'  said  Mr. 
Jansen ;  '  is  there  anything  else  that  you 
require  this  morning  ? ' 

"  *  No,  thank  you,'  I  replied,  ^  not  thia 
morning.'      I  was  beginning  to  like  the  man. 

"  He  took  me  for  quite  a  walk,  and  wher- 
ever we  went  everybody  left  off  what  they 
were  doing  to  stare  at  me.  I  was  getting 
tired  when  we  reached  the  glove  department. 
He   marched  me  up  to  a  young  man  who 


Other  People's  Business    179 

was  sticking  pins  into  himself.  Ke  said 
^  Gloves,'  and  disappeared  through  a  curtain. 
The  young  man  left  off  sticking  pins  into 
himself,  and  leant  across  the  counter. 

"  *  Ladies'  gloves  or  gentlemen's  gloves  ?  * 
he  said. 

"  Well,  I  was  pretty  mad  by  this  time,  as 
you  can  guess.  It  is  funny  when  you  come 
to  think  of  It  afterwards,  but  the  wonder 
then  was  that  1  did  n't  punch  his  head. 

"  I  said,  *  Are  you  ever  busy  in  this  shop  ? 
Does  there  ever  come  a  time  when  you  feel 
you  would  like  to  get  your  work  done.  In- 
stead of  lingering  over  it  and  spinning  it  out 
for  pure  love  of  the  thing? ' 

"  He  did  not  appear  to  understand  me. 
I  said :  *  I  met  a  man  at  your  door  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  ago,  and  we  talked  about  these 
gloves  that  I  want,  and  I  told  him  all  my 
ideas  on  the  subject.  He  took  me  to  your 
Mr.  Jansen,  and  Mr.  Jansen  and  I  went 
over  the  whole  business  again.  Now  Mr. 
Jansen  leaves  me  with  you, — you^  who  do 
not  even  know  whether  I  want  ladies'  or 
gentlemen's  gloves.  Before  I  go  over  this 
story  for  the  third  time,  I  want  to  know 
whether  you  are  the  man  who  is  going  to 


i8o      On  the  Minding  of 

serve  me,  or  whether  you  are  merely  a  lis- 
tener, because  personally  I  am  tired  of  the 
subject?  * 

"  Well,  this  was  the  right  man  at  last,  and 
I  got  my  gloves  from  him.  But  what  is  the 
explanation  ?  What  is  the  idea  ?  I  was  in 
that  shop  from  first  to  last  five-and-thirty 
minutes.  And  then  a  fool  took  me  out  the 
wrong  way  to  show  me  a  special  line  in 
sleeping-socks.  I  told  him  I  was  not  re- 
quiring any.  He  said  he  did  n't  want  me  to 
buy,  he  only  wanted  me  to  see  them.  No 
wonder  the  drapers  have  had  to  start 
luncheon  and  tea  rooms.  They  '11  fix  up 
small  furnished  flats  soon,  where  a  woman 
can  live  for  a  week." 

I  said  it  was  very  trying,  shopping.  I 
also  said,  as  he  invited  me,  and  as  he  ap- 
peared determined  to  go  on  talking,  that  1 
would  have  a  brandy-and-soda.  We  were 
in  the  smoke-room  by  this  time. 

"  There  ought  to  be  an  association,"  he 
continued,  "a  kind  of  clearing-house  for  the 
collection  and  distribution  of  Christmas 
presents.  One  would  give  them  a  list  of  the 
people  from  whom  to  collect  presents,  and 
of  the  people  to  whom  to  send.     Suppose 


Other  People's  Business     i8i 

they  collected  on  my  account  twenty  Christ- 
mas presents,  value,  say,  ten  pounds,  while 
on  the  other  hand  they  sent  out  for  me 
thirty  presents  at  a  cost  of  fifteen  pounds. 
They  would  debit  me  with  the  balance  of 
five  pounds,  together  with  a  small  commis- 
sion. I  should  pay  it  cheerfully,  and  there 
would  be  no  further  trouble.  Perhaps  one 
might  even  make  a  profit.  The  idea  might 
include  birthdays  and  weddings.  A  firm 
would  do  the  business  thoroughly.  They 
would  see  that  all  your  friends  paid  up  —  I 
mean  sent  presents  ;  and  they  would  not  for- 
get to  send  to  your  most  important  relative. 
There  is  only  one  member  of  our  family 
capable  of  leaving  a  shilling ;  and  of  course 
if  I  forget  to  send  to  any  one  it  is  to  him. 
When  1  remember  him  I  generally  make  a 
muddle  of  the  business.  Two  years  ago  I 
gave  him  a  bath,  —  I  don't  mean  I  washed 
him,  —  an  india-rubber  thing,  that  he  could 
pack  in  his  portmanteau.  I  thought  he 
would  find  it  useful  for  travelling.  Would 
you  believe  it,  he  took  it  as  a  personal  af- 
front, and  would  n't  speak  to  me  for  a  month, 
the  snuffy  old  idiot." 

"  I  suppose  the  children  enjoy  it,"  I  said. 


i8  2      On  the  Minding  of 

"  Enjoy  what  ?  *  he  asked. 

"  Why,  Christmas,"  I  explained. 

"  I  don't  believe  they  do,"  he  snapped  : 
"  nobody  enjoys  it.  We  excite  them  for 
three  weeks  beforehand,  telling  them  what  a 
good  time  they  are  going  to  have,  overfeed 
them  for  two  or  three  days,  take  them  to 
something  they  do  not  want  to  see,  but 
which  we  do,  and  then  bully  them  for  a  fort- 
night to  get  them  back  into  their  normal 
condition.  I  was  always  taken  to  the  Crys- 
tal Palace  and  Madame  Tussaud's  when  I 
was  a  child,  I  remember.  How  I  did  hate 
that  Crystal  Palace  !  Aunt  used  to  super- 
intend. It  was  always  a  bitterly  cold  day, 
and  we  always  got  into  the  wrong  train,  and 
travelled  half  the  day  before  we  got  there. 
We  never  had  any  dinner.  It  never  occurs 
to  a  woman  that  anybody  can  want  their 
meals  while  away  from  home.  She  seems 
to  think  that  nature  is  in  suspense  from 
the  time  you  leave  the  house  till  the  time 
you  get  back  to  it.  A  bun  and  a  glass  of 
milk  was  her  idea  of  lunch  for  a  school-boy. 
Half  her  time  was  taken  up  in  losing  us, 
and  the  other  half  in  slapping  us  when  she 
had   found  us.     The  only  thing  we  really 


Other  People's  Business     183 

enjoyed  was  the  row  with  the  cabman  com- 
ing home." 

I  rose  to  go. 

"  Then  you  won*tjom  that  symposium  ?  " 

said  B .     "  It  would  be  an  easy  enough 

thing  to  knock  off,  *  Why  Christmas  should 
be  abolished.'  " 

"  It  sounds  simple,"  I  answered.  "  But 
how  do  you  propose  to  abolish  it?"  The 
lady  editor  of  an  "advanced"  American  maga- 
zine once  set  the  discussion,  "  Should  sex 
be  abolished?  "  and  eleven  ladies  and  gentle- 
men seriously  argued  the  question. 

"  Leave  it  to  die  of  inanition,"  said  B ; 

"  the  first  step  is  to  arouse  public  opinion. 
Convince  the  public  that  it  should  be 
abolished." 

"  But  why  should  it  be  abolished  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  Great  Scott !  man,"  he  exclaimed,  "  don't 
you  want  it  abolished  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  do,"  I  replied. 

"  Not  sure,"  he  retorted  ;  "  you  call  your- 
self a  journaHst,  and  admit  there  is  a  sub- 
ject under  Heaven  of  which  you  are  not 
sure !  " 

"  It  has  come  over  me  of  late  years,"  I  re- 


184      On  the  Minding  of 

plied.  "  It  used  not  to  be  my  failing,  as 
you  know." 

He  glanced  round  to  make  sure  we  were 
out  of  earshot,  then  sunk  his  voice  to  a 
whisper. 

"  Between  ourselves,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  not 
so  sure  of  everything  myself  as  I  used  to  be. 
Why  is  it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  we  are  getting  older,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

He  said,  "  I  started  golf  last  year,  and 
the  first  time  I  took  the  club  in  my  hand 
I  sent  the  ball  a  furlong.  *  It  seems  an 
easy  game,*  I  said  to  the  man  who  was 
teaching  me.  '  Yes,  most  people  find  it  easy 
at  the  beginning,'  he  replied  drily.  He  was 
an  old  golfer  himself;  I  thought  he  was 
jealous.  I  stuck  well  to  the  game,  and  for 
about  three  weeks  I  was  immensely  pleased 
with  myself  Then,  gradually,  I  began  to  find 
out  the  difficulties.  I  feel  I  shall  never 
make  a  good  player.  Have  you  ever  gone 
through   that    experience  ? 

"  Yes,"  I  replied  ;  "  I  suppose  that  is  the 
explanation.  The  game  seems  so  easy  at  the 
beginning." 

I  left  him  to  his  lunch,  and  strolled  west- 


Other  People's  Business    185 

ward,  musing  on  the  time  when  I  should 
have  answered  that  question  of  his  about 
Christmas,  or  any  other  question,  ofF-hand. 
That  good  youth  time  when  I  knew  every- 
thing, when  Hfe  presented  no  problems, 
dangled  no  doubts  before  me  ! 

In  those  days,  wishful  to  give  the  world 
the  benefit  of  my  wisdom,  and  seeking  for 
a  candlestick  wherefrom  my  brilliancy  might 
be  visible  and  helpful  unto  men,  I  arrived 
before  a  dingy  portal  in  Chequers  Street,  St. 
Luke's,  behind  which  a  conclave  of  young 
men,  together  with  a  few  old  enough  to  have 
known  better,  met  every  Friday  evening  for 
the  purpose  of  discussing  and  arranging  the 
affairs  of  the  universe.  "  Speaking  mem- 
bers "  were  charged  ten-and-sixpence  per 
annum,  which  must  have  worked  out  at  an 
extremely  moderate  rate  per  word ;  and 
"  gentlemen  whose  subscriptions  were  more 
than  three  months  in  arrear,"  became,  by  Rule 
Seven,  powerless  for  good  or  evil.  We  called 
ourselves  "  The  Stormy  Petrels,"  and  under 
the  sympathetic  shadow  of  those  wings  I 
laboured  two  seasons  towards  the  reforma- 
tion of  the  human  race  ;  until.  Indeed,  our 
treasurer,  an  earnest  young  man,  and  a  tire 


1 86      On  the  Minding  of 

less  foe  of  all  that  was  conventional,  departed 
for  the  East,  leaving  behind  him  a  balance 
sheet  showing  that  the  club  owed  forty-two 
pounds  fifteen  and  fourpence,  and  that  the 
subscription  for  the  current  year,  amounting 
to  a  little  over  thirty-eight  pounds,  had 
been  "  carried  forward,"  but  as  to  where, 
the  report  afforded  no  indication.  Where- 
upon our  landlord,  a  man  utterly  without 
ideals,  seized  our  furniture,  offering  to  sell  it 
back  to  us  for  fifteen  pounds.  We  pointed 
out  to  him  that  this  was  an  extravagant  price, 
and  tendered  him  five. 

The  negotiations  terminated  with  ungentle- 
manly  language  on  his  part,  and  "  The 
Stormy  Petrels  "  scattered,  never  to  be  fore- 
gathered together  again  above  the  troubled 
waters  of  humanity.  Nowadays,  listening 
to  the  feeble  plans  of  modern  reformers,  I 
cannot  help  but  smile,  remembering  what 
was  done  in  Chequers  Street,  St.  Luke's,  in 
an  age  when  Mrs.  Grundy  still  gave  the  law 
to  literature,  while  yet  the  British  matron 
was  the  guide  to  British  art.  I  am  informed 
that  there  is  abroad  the  question  of  abohsh- 
ing  the  House  of  Lords !  Why,  "  The 
Stormy  Petrels  "  abolished  the  aristocracy  and 


Other  People's  Business     187 

the  Crown  in   one  evening,  and  then   only 
adjourned    for    the    purpose    of   appointing 
a  committee    to    draw  up    and    have    ready 
a  Republican  Constitution   by  the  following 
Friday   evening.       They     talk    of    Empire 
lounges  !      We  closed  the  doors  of    every 
music-hall   in  London  eighteen  years  ago  by 
twenty-nine  votes  to  seventeen.     They  had 
a  patient  hearing,  and  were  ably  defended ; 
but  we   found    that  the   tendency   of    such 
amusements  was  anti-progressive  and  against 
the  best  interests  of  an  intellectually  advan- 
cing democracy.     I   met   the  mover  of  the 
condemnatory  resolution  at  the  old  "  Pav  " 
the  following    evening,    and    we    continued 
the  discussion  over  a  bottle   of  bass.     He 
strengthened    his    argument    by   persuading 
me  to  sit  out  the  whole  of  the  three   songs 
sung  by  the  "  Lion  Comique  ;  "  but   I   sub- 
sequently  retorted   successfully  by  bringing 
under  his  notice  the  dancing  of  a    lady  in 
blue  tights  and   flaxen  hair.       I   forget  her 
name,  but  never  shall  I  cease  to  remember 
her  exquisite  charm  and  beauty.     Ah,  me  ! 
how  charming  and  how  beautiful  "  artistes  " 
were  in  those  golden  days  !     Whence  have 
they  vanished  ?     Ladies  in  blue  tights  and 


1 88      On  the  Minding  of 

flaxen  hair  dance  before  my  eyes  to-day,  but 
move  me  not,  unless  it  be  towards  boredom. 
Where  be  the  tripping  witches  of  twenty 
years  ago,  whom  to  see  once  was  to  dream  of 
for  a  week,  to  touch  whose  white  hand  would 
have  been  joy,  to  kiss  whose  red  lips  would 
have  been  to  foretaste  Heaven.  I  heard 
only  the  other  day  that  the  son  of  an  old 
friend  of  mine  had  secretly  married  a  lady 
from  the  front  row  of  the  ballet,  and  invol- 
untarily I  exclaimed,  "  Poor  devil  !  "  There 
was  a  time  when  my  first  thought  would 
have  been, "  Lucky  beggar  !  is  he  worthy  of 
her  ?  "  For  then  the  ladies  of  the  ballet 
were  angels.  How  could  one  gaze  at  them 
—  from  the  shilling  pit  —  and  doubt  it? 
They  danced  to  keep  a  widowed  mother  in 
comfort,  or  to  send  a  younger  brother  to 
school.  Then  they  were  glorious  creatures 
a  young  man  did  well  to  worship  ;  but  now- 
adays — 

It  is  an  old  jest.  The  eyes  of  youth  see 
through  rose-tinted  glasses.  The  eyes  of 
age  are  dim  behind  smoke-clouded  specta- 
cles. My  flaxen  friend,  you  are  not  the 
angel  I  dreamed  you,  nor  the  exceptional 
sinner  some  would   paint  you  ;    but  under 


Other  People's  Business    189 

your  feathers  just  a  woman,  —  a  bundle  of 
follies  and  failings,  tied  up  with  some  sweet- 
ness and  strength.  You  keep  a  brougham 
I  am  sure  you  cannot  afford  on  your  thirty 
shillings  a  week.  There  are  ladies  I  know 
in  May  fair,  who  have  paid  an  extravagant 
price  for  theirs.  You  paint  and  you  dye,  I 
am  told ;  it  is  even  hinted  you  pad.  Don't 
we  all  of  us  deck  ourselves  out  in  virtues 
that  are  not  our  own  ?  When  the  paint 
and  the  powder,  my  sister,  is  stnpped  both 
from  you  and  from  me,  we  shall  know  which 
of  us  is  entitled  to  look  down  on  the  other 
in  scorn. 

Forgive  me,  gentle  Reader,  for  digressing. 
The  lady  led  me  astray.  I  was  speaking  of 
"The  Stormy  Petrels,"  and  of  the  reforms 
they  accomplished,  which  were  many.  We 
abolished,  I  remember,  capital  punishment 
and  war;  we  were  excellent  young  men  at 
heart.  Christmas  we  reformed  altogether, 
along  with  Bank  Holidays,  by  a  majority  of 
twelve.  I  never  recollect  any  proposal  to 
abolish  anything  ever  being  lost  when  put 
to  the  vote.  There  were  few  things  that  we 
"Stormy  Petrels"  did  not  abolish.  We 
attacked  Christmas  on  grounds  of  expediency 


iQO      On  the  Minding  of 

and  killed  it  by  ridicule.  We  exposed  the 
hollow  mockery  of  Christmas  sentiment  j  we 
abused  the  indigestible  Christmas  dinner,  the 
tiresome  Christmas  party,  the  silly  Christ- 
mas pantomime.  Our  funny  member  was 
side-splitting  on  the  subject  of  Christmas 
Waits ;  our  social  reformer  bitter  upon 
Christmas  drunkenness ;  our  economist 
indignant  upon  Christmas  charities.  Only 
one  argument  of  any  weight  with  us  was 
advanced  in  favour  of  the  festival,  and  that 
was  our  leading  cynic's  suggestion  that  it 
was  worth  enduring  the  miseries  of  Christ- 
mas to  enjoy  the  soul-satisfying  comfort  of 
the  after  reflection  that  it  was  all  over,  and 
could  not  occur  again  for  another  year. 

But  since  those  days  when  I  was  prepared 
to  put  this  old  world  of  ours  to  rights  upon 
all  matters,  I  have  seen  many  sights  and 
heard  many  sounds,  and  I  am  not  quite  so 
sure  as  I  once  was  that  my  particular  views 
are  the  only  possibly  correct  ones.  Christ- 
mas seems  to  me  somewhat  meaningless  ; 
but  I  have  looked  through  windows  in 
poverty-stricken  streets,  and  have  seen  dingy 
parlours  gay  with  many  chains  of  coloured 
paper.     They  stretched  from  corner  to  cor- 


Other  People's  Business    191 

her  of  the  smoke-grimed  ceiling,  they  fell 
in  clumsy  festoons  from  the  cheap  gasalier, 
they  framed  the  fly-blown  mirror  and  the 
tawdry  pictures ;  and  I  know  tired  hands 
and  eyes  worked  many  hours  to  fashion  and 
fix  those  foolish  chains,  saying,  "  It  will 
please  him  —  she  will  like  to  see  the  room 
look  pretty ; "  and  as  I  have  looked  at  them 
they  have  grown,  in  some  mysterious  man- 
ner, beautiful  to  me.  The  gaudy-coloured 
child  and  dog  irritates  me,  I  confess  ;  but  I 
have  watched  a  grimy,  inartistic  personage 
smoothing  it  affectionately  with  toil-stained 
hand,  while  eager  faces  crowded  round  to 
admire  and  wonder  at  its  blatant  crudity. 
It  hangs  to  this  day  in  its  cheap  frame  above 
the  chimney-piece,  the  one  bright  spot  reliev- 
ing those  damp-stained  walls  ;  dull  eyes 
stare  and  stare  again  at  it,  catching  a  vista, 
through  its  flashy  tints,  of  the  far  off  land  of 
art.  Christmas  Waits  annoy  me,  and  I 
yearn  to  throw  open  the  window  and  fling 
coal  at  them,  —  as  once  from  the  window  of 
a  high  flat  in  Chelsea  I  did.  I  doubted 
their  being  genuine  Waits.  I  was  inclined 
to  the  opinion  they  were  young  men  seeking 
excuse  for  making  a  noise.     One  of  them 


192      On  the  Minding  of 

appeared  to  know  a  hymn  with  a  chorus, 
another  played  the  concertina,  while  a  third 
accompanied  with  a  step  dance.  Instinc- 
tively I  felt  no  respect  for  them  ;  they  dis- 
turbed me  in  my  work,  and  the  desire  grew 
upon  me  to  injure  them.  It  occurred  to  me 
it  would  be  good  sport  if  I  turned  out  the 
light,  softly  opened  the  window,  and  threw 
coal  at  them.  It  would-be  impossible  for 
them  to  tell  from  which  window  in  the  block 
the  coal  came,  and  thus  subsequent  unpleas- 
antness would  be  avoided.  They  were  a 
compact  little  group,  and  with  average  luck 
I  was  bound  to  hit  one  of  them. 

I  adopted  the  plan.  I  could  not  see  them 
very  clearly.  I  aimed  rather  at  the  noise  ; 
and  I  had  thrown  about  twenty  choice 
lumps  without  effect,  and  was  feeling  some- 
what discouraged,  when  a  yell,  followed  by 
language  singularly  unappropriate  to  the 
season,  told  me  that  Providence  had  aided 
my  arm.  The  music  ceased  suddenly,  and 
the  party  dispersed,  apparently  in  high  glee, 
—  which  struck  me  as  curious. 

One  man  I  noticed  remained  behind. 
He  stood  under  the  lamp-post,  and  shook 
his  fist  at  the  block  generally. 


Other  People's  Business    193 

"  Who  threw  that  lump  of  coal  ?  **  he  de- 
manded in  stentorian  tones. 

To  my  horror,  it  was  the  voice  of  the 
man  at  Eighty-eight,  an  Irish  gentleman,  a 
journalist  like  myself.  I  saw  it  all,  as  the 
unfortunate  hero  always  exclaims,  too  late, 
in  the  play.  He,  —  Number  Eighty-eight, 
—  also  disturbed  by  the  noise,  had  evidently 
gone  out  to  expostulate  with  the  rioters. 
Of  course  my  lump  of  coal  had  hit  him,  — 
him  the  innocent,  the  peaceful  (up  till  then), 
the  virtuous.  That  is  the  justice  Fate  deals 
out  to  us  mortals  here  below.  There  were 
ten  to  fourteen  young  men  in  that  crowd, 
each  one  of  whom  fully  deserved  that  lump 
of  coal ;  he,  the  one  guiltless,  got  it  — 
seerrJngly,  so  far  as  the  dim  light  from  the 
gas  lamp  enabled  me  to  judge,  full  in  the 
eye. 

As  the  block  remained  silent  in  answer  to 
his  demand,  he  crossed  the  road  and 
mounted  the  stairs.  On  each  landing  he 
stopped  and  shouted,  — 

"Who  threw  that  lump  of  coal?  I  want 
the  man  who  threw  that  lump  of  coal.  Out 
you  come ! " 

Now  a  good  man  in  my  place  would  have 
»3 


194      O^  the  Minding  of 

waited  till  Number  Eighty-eight  arrived  on 
his  landing,  and  then,  throwing  open  the 
door,  would  have  said  with  manly  can- 
dour,— 

"/  threw  that  lump  of  coal,  I  was- — " 
He  would  not  have  got  further,  because  at 
that  point,  I  feel  confident,  Number  Eighty- 
eight  would  have  punched  his  head.  There 
would  have  been  an  unseemly  fracas  on  the 
staircase,  to  the  annoyance  of  all  the  other 
tenants ;  and  later  there  would  have  issued 
a  summons  and  a  cross-summons.  Angry 
passions  would  have  been  roused,  bitter 
feelings  engendered  which  might  have  lasted 
for  years. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  good  man.  I 
doubt  if  the  pretence  would  be  of  any  use 
were  I  to  try :  I  am  not  a  sufficiently  good 
actor.  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  took  off  my 
boots  in  the  study,  preparatory  to  retiring 
to  my  bedroom,  "  Number  Eighty-eight 
is  evidently  not  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  listen 
to  my  story.  It  will  be  better  to  let  him 
shout  himself  cool ;  after  which  he  will 
return  to  his  own  flat,  bathe  his  eye,  and 
obtain  some  refreshing  sleep.  In  the  morn- 
ing, when  we  shall  probably  meet  as  usual 


Other  People's  Business    195 

on  our  way  to  Fleet  Street,  I  will  refer  to 
the  incident  casually,  and  sympathise  with 
him.  I  will  suggest  to  him  the  truth, — • 
that  in  all  probability  some  fellow-tenant, 
Irritated  also  by  the  noise,  had  aimed  coal 
at  the  Waits,  hitting  him  instead  by  a  regret- 
table but  pure  accident.  With  tact  I  may 
even  be  able  to  make  him  see  the  humour 
of  the  incident.  Later  on,  In  March  or 
April,  choosing  my  moment  with  judgment, 
I  will,  perhaps,  confess  that  I  was  that 
fellow-tenant,  and  over  a  friendly  brandy- 
and-soda  we  will  laugh  the  whole  trouble 
away." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  that  is  what  happened. 
Said  Number  Eighty-eight,  —  he  was  a  big 
man,  as  good  a  fellow  at  heart  as  ever  lived, 
but  impulsive,  —  "  Damned  lucky  for  you, 
old  man,  you  did  not  tell  me  at  the  time." 

"  I  felt,"  I  replied,  "  instinctively  that  It 
was  a  case  for  delay." 

There  are  times  when  one  should  control 
one's  passion  for  candour ;  and  as  I  was 
saying,  Christmas  Waits  excite  no  emotion 
in  my  breast  save  that  of  irritation.  But  I 
have  known  "Hark,  the  herald  angels  sing," 
wheezily  chanted  by  fog-filled  throats,  and 


196      On  the  Minding  of 

accompanied,  hopelessly  out  of  time,  by  a 
cornet  and  a  flute,  bring  a  great  look  of 
gladness  to  a  work-worn  face.  To  her  it 
was  u  message  of  hope  and  love,  mak- 
ing the  hard  life  taste  sweet.  The  mere 
thought  of  family  gatherings,  so  custo- 
mary at  Christmas  time,  bores  us  supe- 
rior people ;  but  I  think  of  an  incident 
told  me  by  a  certain  man,  a  friend  of 
mine.  One  Christmas,  my  friend,  visiting 
in  the  country,  came  face  to  face  with  a 
woman  whom  in  town  he  had  often  met 
amid  very  different  surroundings.  The 
door  of  the  little  farmhouse  was  open ;  she 
and  an  older  woman  were  ironing  at  a  table, 
and  as  her  soft  white  hands  passed  to  and 
fro,  folding  and  smoothing  the  rumpled 
heap,  she  laughed  and  talked  with  the  older 
woman  concerning  simple  homely  things. 
My  friend's  shadow  fell  across  her  work, 
and  she  looking  up,  their  eyes  met;  but 
her  face  said  plainly,  "  I  do  not  know  you 
here,  and  here  you  do  not  know  me.  Here 
T  am  a  woman  loved  and  respected."  My 
friend  passed  in  and  spoke  to  the  older 
woman,  the  wife  of  one  of  his  host's  tenants, 
and  she  turned  towards  and  introduced  the 


Other  People's  Business     197 

younger  :  "  My  daughter,  sir.  We  do  not 
see  her  very  often.  She  Is  in  a  place  in 
London,  and  cannot  get  away.  But  she 
always  spends  a  few  days  with  us  at  Christ- 
mas." 

"  It  is  the  season  for  family  reunions," 
answered  my  friend  with  just  the  suggestion 
of  a  sneer,  and  for  which  he  hated  himself. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  not  noticing; 
"  she  has  never  missed  her  Christmas  with 
Ais,  have  you,  Bess?" 

"  No,  mother,"  replied  the  girl,  simply, 
and  bent  her  head  again  over  her  work. 

So  for  these  few  days  every  year  this 
woman  left  her  furs  and  jewels,  her  fine 
clothes  and  dainty  foods,  behind  her,  and 
lived  for  a  little  space  with  what  was  clean 
and  wholesome.  It  was  the  one  anchor 
holding  her  to  womanhood;  and  one  likes 
to  think  that  it  was,  perhaps,  in  the  end 
strong  enough  to  save  her  from  the  drifting 
waters.  All  which  arguments  in  favour  of 
Christmas  and  of  Christmas  customs  are, 
I  admit,  purely  sentimental  ones,  but  I  have 
lived  long  enough  to  doubt  whether  senti- 
ment has  not  its  legitimate  place  in  the 
economy  of  life. 


ON   THE  TIME  WASTED   IN 

LOOKING    BEFORE   ONE 

LEAPS 

HAVE  you  ever  noticed  the  going  out 
of  a  woman  ? 

When  a  man  goes  out,  he  says,  "  I  'm 
going  out,  sha'n't  be  long." 

"  Oh,  George,"  cries  his  wife  from  the 
other  end  of  the  house,  "  don't  go  for  a 
moment.  I  want  you  to  — "  She  hears 
a  faihng  of  hats,  followed  by  the  slamming 
of  the  front  door. 

"  Oh,  George,  you  're  not  gone,"  she  wails. 
It  is  but  the  voice  of  despair.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  she  knows  he  has  gone.  She  reaches 
the  hall,  breathless. 

"  He  might  have  waited  a  miinute,"  she 
mutters  to  herself,  as  she  picks  up  the  hats, 
"  there  were  so  many  things  I  wanted  him 
to  do." 

She  does  not  open  the  door  and  attempt 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   199 

to  stop  him,  she  knows  he  is  already  half- 
way down  the  street.  It  is  a  mean,  paltry 
way  of  going  out,  she  thinks;  so  like  a 
man. 

When  a  woman,  on  the  other  hand,  goes 
out,  people  know  about  it.  She  does  not 
sneak  out.  She  says  she  is  going  out.  She 
says  it,  generally,  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  before ;  and  she  repeats  it,  at  intervals, 
until  tea-time.  At  tea,  she  suddenly  decides 
that  she  won't,  that  she  will  leave  it  till  the 
day  after  to-morrow  instead.  An  hour  later 
she  thinks  she  will  go  to-morrow,  after  all,  and 
makes  arrangements  to  wash  her  hair  over- 
night. For  the  next  hour  or  so  she  alter- 
nates between  fits  of  exaltation,  during  which 
she  looks  forward  to  going  out,  and  moments 
of  despondency,  when  a  sense  of  foreboding 
falls  upon  her.  At  dinner  she  persuades 
some  other  woman  to  go  with  her  ;  the  other 
woman,  once  persuaded,  is  enthusiastic  about 
going,  until  she  recollects  that  she  cannot. 
The  first  woman,  however,  convinces  her 
that  she   can. 

"  Yes,"  replies  the  second  woman,  "  but 
then,  how  about  you,  dear?  You  are  for- 
getting the  Joneses." 


200    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

"  So  I  was,"  answers  the  first  woman, 
completely  nonplussed.  "  How  very  awk- 
ward, and  I  can't  go  on  Wednesday.  I  shall 
have  to  leave  it  till  Thursday,  now." 

"But/can'tgo  Thursday,"  says  the  second 
woman. 

"  Well,  you  go  without  me,  dear,"  says  the 
first  woman,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  is  sac- 
rificing a  life's  ambition. 

'*  Oh,  no,  dear,  I  should  not  think  of  it," 
nobly  exclaims  the  second  woman.  "  We 
will  wait  and  go  together,  Friday." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  we  '11  do,"  says  the 
first  woman.  "  V/e  will  start  early  "  (this  is 
an  inspiration),  "and  be  back  before  the 
Joneses  arrive." 

They  agree  to  sleep  together ;  there  is  a 
lurking  suspicion  in  both  their  minds  that 
this  may  be  their  last  sleep  on  earth.  They 
retire  early  with  a  can  of  hot  water.  At 
intervals,  during  the  night,  one  overhears 
them  splashing  water,   and  talking. 

They  come  down  very  late  for  breakfast, 
and  both  very  cross.  Each  seems  to  have 
argued  herself  into  the  belief  that  she  has 
been  lured  into  this  piece  of  nonsense,  against 
her  better  judgment,  by  the  persistent  folly 


I      Looking  Before  One  Leaps   201 

of  the  other  one.  During  the  meal  each  one 
asks  the  other,  every  five  minutes,  if  she  is 
quite  ready.  Each  one,  it  appears,  has  only 
her  hat  to  put  on.  They  talk  about  the 
weather,  and  wonder  what  it  is  going  to  do. 
They  wish  it  would  make  up  its  mind,  one 
way  or  the  other.  They  are  very  bitter  on 
weather  that  cannot  make  up  its  mind. 
After  breakfast  it  still  looks  cloudy,  and  they 
decide  to  abandon  the  scheme  altogether. 
The  first  woman  then  remembers  that  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  for  her,  at  all  events, 
to  go. 

"  But  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  come, 
dear,"  she  says. 

Up  to  that  point  the  second  woman  was 
evidently  not  sure  whether  she  wished  to  go 
or  whether  she  did  n't.     Now  she  knows. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  '11  come,"  she  says,  "  then  it 
will  be  over." 

"  I  am  sure  you  don't  want  to  go,"  urges 
the  first  woman,  "  and  I  shall  be  quicker  by 
myself      I  am  ready  to  start  now." 

The  second  woman  bridles. 

"  /  sha'n't  be  a  couple  of  minutes,"  she 
retorts.  "  You  know,  dear,  it 's  generally  1 
who  have  to  v/ait  for  jo«," 


20  2    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

"  But  you  Ve  not  got  your  boots  on,"  the 
first  woman  reminds  her, 

"Well,  they  won't  take  any  tim-e,"  is  the 
answer.  "  But,  of  course,  dear,  if  you  'd 
really  rather  I  did  not  come,  say  so."  By 
this  time  she  is  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"  Of  course,  I  would  like  you  to  come, 
dear,"  explains  the  first  in  a  resigned  tone. 
"  I  thought  perhaps  you  were  only  coming 
to  please  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  'd  like  to  come,"  says  the 
second  woman. 

"  Well,  we  must  hurry  up,"  says  the  first ; 
"  I  sha'n't  be  more  than  a  minute  myself. 
I  've  merely  got  to  change  my  skirt." 

Half-an-hour  later  you  hear  them  calling 
to  each  other,  from  different  parts  of  the 
house,  to  know  if  the  other  one  is  ready. 
It  appears  they  have  both  been  ready  for 
quite  a  long  while,  waiting  only  for  the 
other  one. 

"  I  *m  afraid,"  calls  out  the  one  whose 
turn  it  is  to  be  downstairs,  "  it 's  going  to 
rain." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,'*  calls  back  the  other 
one. 

**  Well,  It  looks  very  like  it." 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   203 

"  What  a  nuisance ! "  answered  the  up- 
stairs woman  ;  "shall  we  put  it  off?  " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think,  dear  ?  '*  replies 
the  downstairs. 

They  decide  they  will  go,  only  now  they 
will  have  to  change  their  boots,  and  put  on 
different  hats. 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  they  are  still 
shouting  and  running  about.  Then  it  seems 
as  if  they  really  were  ready,  nothing  remain- 
ing but  for  them  to  say,  "  Good-bye,"  and  go. 

They  begin  by  kissing  the  children.  A 
woman  never  leaves  her  house  without  secret 
misgivings  that  she  will  never  return  to  it 
ahve.  One  child  cannot  be  found.  When 
it  is  found  it  wishes  it  had  n't  been.  It  has 
to  be  washed,  preparatory  to  being  kissed. 
After  that,  the  dog  has  to  be  found  and 
kissed,  and  final  instructions  given  to  the 
cook. 

Then  they  open  the  front  door. 

*'  Oh,  George,"  calls  out  the  first  woman, 
turning  ro'ind  again,  "  are  you  there  ?  " 

"  Hullo,"  answers  a  voice  from  the  dis- 
tance.    "  Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,  only  to  say  good-bye.  I  *m 
going." 


204    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

"  Oh,  good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  dear.  Do  you  think  it's 
going  to  rain  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  should  not  say  so." 

"  George  ! " 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  got  any  money  ?  " 

Five  minutes  later  they  come  running 
back  ;  the  one  has  forgotten  her  parasol,  the 
other  her  purse. 

And  speaking  of  purses,  reminds  one  of 
another  essential  difference  between  the  male 
and  female  human  animal.  A  man  carries 
his  money  in  his  pocket.  When  he  wants 
to  use  it,  he  takes  it  out  and  lays  it  down. 
This  is  a  crude  way  of  doing  things ;  a 
woman  displays  more  subtlety.  Say  she  is 
standing  in  the  street  and  wants  fourpence 
to  pay  for  a  bunch  of  violets  she  has  pur- 
chased from  a  flower-girl.  She  has  two 
parcels  in  one  hand  and  a  parasol  in  the 
other.  With  the  remaining  two  fingers  of 
the  left  hand  she  secures  the  violets.  The 
question  then  arises,  how  to  pay  the  girl  ? 
She  flutters  for  a  few  minutes,  evidently  not 
quite  understanding  why  it  is  she  cannot  do 
it.     The  reason  then  occurs  to  her :  she  has 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   205 

only  two  hands  and  both  these  are  occupied. 
First  she  thinks  she  will  put  the  parcels  and 
the  flowers  into  her  right  hand,  then  she 
thinks  she  will  put  the  parasol  into  her  left. 
Then  she  looks  round  for  a  table  or  even  a 
chair,  but  there  is  not  such  a  thing  in  the 
whole  street.  Her  difficulty  is  solved  by 
her  dropping  the  parcels  and  the  flowers. 
The  girl  picks  them  up  for  her  and  holds 
them.  This  enables  her  to  feel  for  her 
pocket  with  her  right  hand,  while  waving 
her  open  parasol  about  with  her  left.  She 
knocks  an  old  gentleman's  hat  off  into  the 
gutter,  and  nearly  blinds  the  flower-girl  before 
it  occurs  to  her  to  close  it.  This  done,  she 
leans  it  up  against  the  flower-girl's  basket, 
and  sets  to  work  in  earnest  with  both  hands. 
She  seizes  herself  firmly  by  the  back,  and 
turns  the  upper  part  of  her  body  round  till 
her  hair  is  in  front  and  her  eyes  behind. 
Still  holding  herself  firmly  with  her  left  hand, 
—  did  she  let  herself  go,  goodness  knows 
where  she  would  spin  to,  —  with  her  right 
she  prospects  herself.  The  purse  is  there, 
she  can  feel  it ;  the  problem  is  how  to  get  at 
it.  The  quickest  way  would,  of  course,  be 
to  take  off  the  skirt,  sit  down  on  the  kerb. 


2o6    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

turn  it  Inside  out,  and  work  from  the  bottom 
of  the  pocket  upwards.  But  this  simple 
idea  never  seems  to  occur  to  her.  There 
are  some  thirty  folds  at  the  back  of  the 
dress,  between  two  of  these  folds  commences 
the  secret  passage.  At  last,  purely  by 
chance,  she  suddenly  discovers  it,  nearly 
upsetting  herself  in  the  process,  and  the 
purse  is  brought  up  to  the  surface.  The 
difficulty  of  opening  it  still  remains.  She 
knows  it  opens  with  a  spring,  but  the  secret 
of  that  spring  she  has  never  mastered,  and 
she  never  will.  Her  plan  is  to  worry  it  gen- 
erally until  it  does  open.  Five  minutes  will 
always  do  it,  provided  she  is  not  flustered. 

At  last  it  does  open.  It  would  be  incor- 
rect to  say  that  she  opens  it.  It  opens  be- 
cause it  is  sick  of  being  mauled  about ;  and, 
as  likely  as  not,  it  opens  at  the  moment 
when  she  is  holding  it  upside  down.  If  you 
happen  to  be  near  enough  to  look  over  her 
shoulder,  you  will  notice  that  the  gold  and 
silver  lie  loose  within  it.  In  an  inner  sanc- 
tuary, carefully  secured  with  a  second  secret 
spring,  she  keeps  her  coppers,  together  with 
a  postage-stamp  and  a  draper's  receipt,  nine 
months  old,  for  elevenpence  three-farthingss. 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   207 

I  remember  the  indignation  of  an  old 
bus-conductor,  once.  Inside  we  were  nine 
women  and  two  men.  I  sat  next  the  door, 
and  his  remarks  therefore  he  addressed  to 
me.  It  was  certainly  taking  him  some  time 
to  collect  the  fares,  but  I  think  he  would 
have  got  on  better  had  he  been  less  bus- 
tling;  he  worried  them,  and  made  them 
nervous. 

"  Look  at  that,"  he  said,  drawing  my  at- 
tention to  a  poor  lady  opposite,  who  was 
diving  in  the  customary  manner  for  her 
purse  ;  "  they  sit  on  their  money,  women  do. 
Blest  if  you  would  n't  think  they  was  trying 
to  'atch  it." 

At  length  the  lady  drew  from  underneath 
herself  an  exceedingly  fat  purse. 

"  Fancy  riding  in  a  bumpby  bus,  perched 
up  on  that  thing,"  he  continued.  "  Think 
what  a  stamina  they  must  have."  He  grew 
confidential.  "  I  've  seen  one  woman,"  he 
said,  "  pull  out  from  underneath  'er  a  street 
door-key,  a  tin  box  of  lozengers,  a  pencil- 
case,  a  whopping  big  purse,  a  packet  of  hair- 
pins, and  a  smelling-bottle.  Why,  you  or 
me  would  be  wretched,  sitting  on  a  plain 
doorknob,  and  them  women  goes  about  like 


20 8    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

that  all  day.  I  suppose  they  gets  use  to 
it.  Drop  'em  on  an  eider-down  pillow,  and 
they  'd  scream.  The  time  it  takes  me  to  get 
tuppence  out  of  them,  why,  it 's  heart-break- 
ing. First  they  tries  one  side,  then  they  tries 
the  other.  Then  they  gets  up  and  shakes 
theirselves  till  the  bus  jerks  them  back  again, 
and  there  they  are,  a  more  'opeless  'eap  than 
ever.  If  I  *ad  my  way  I  'd  make  every  bus 
carry  a  female  searcher  as  could  overhaul  'em 
one  at  a  time,  and  take  the  money  from  'em. 
Talk  about  the  poor  pickpocket.  What  I 
say  is,  that  a  man  as  finds  his  way  into  a 
woman's  pocket,  —  well,  he  deserves  what 
he  gets." 

But  it  was  the  thought  of  more  serious 
matters  that  lured  me  into  reflections  con- 
cerning the  overcarefulness  of  women.  It  is 
a  theory  of  mine  —  wrong  possibly;  indeed 
I  have  so  been  informed  —  that  we  pick  our 
way  through  life  with  too  much  care.  We 
are  for  ever  looking  down  upon  the  ground. 
Maybe  we  do  avoid  a  stumble  or  two  over 
a  stone  or  a  brier,  but  also  we  miss  the  blue 
of  the  sky,  the  glory  of  the  hills.  These 
books  that  good  men  write,  telling  us  that 
what  they  call  "  success  "  in  life  depends  on 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   209 

our  flinging  aside  our  youth  and  wasting  our 
manhood  in  order  that  we  may  have  the 
means  when  we  are  eighty  of  spending  a 
rollicking  old  age,  annoy  me.  We  save  all 
our  lives  to  invest  in  a  South  Sea  Bubble ; 
and  in  skimping  and  scheming,  we  have 
grown  mean,  and  narrow,  and  hard.  We 
will  put  off  the  gathering  of  the  roses  till 
to-morrow,  to-day  it  shall  be  all  work,  all 
bargain-driving,  all  plotting.  Lo,  when  to- 
morrow comes,  the  roses  are  blown  ;  nor  do 
we  care  for  roses,  idle  things  of  small  market- 
able value ;  cabbages  are  more  to  our  fancy 
by  the  time  to-morrow  comes. 

Life  is  a  thing  to  be  lived,  not  spent ;  to  be 
faced,  not  ordered.  Life  is  not  a  game  of 
chess,  the  victory  to  the  most  knowing ;  it  is 
a  game  of  cards,  one's  hand  by  skill  to  be 
made  the  best  of.  Is  it  the  wisest  who  is 
always  the  most  successful  ?  I  think  not. 
The  luckiest  whist  player  I  ever  came  across 
was  a  man  who  was  never  quite  certain  what 
were  trumps,  and  whose  most  frequent  ob- 
servation during  the  game  was  "  I  really  beg 
your  pardon,"  addressed  to  his  partner ; 
a  remark  which  generally  elicited  the  reply, 
*'  Oh,  don't  apologise.    AH  's  well  that  ends 


2IO    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

well."  The  man  I  knew  who  made  the 
most  rapid  fortune  was  a  builder  in  the  out- 
skirts of  Birmingham,  who  could  not  write 
his  name,  and  who,  for  thirty  years  of  his 
life,  never  went  to  bed  sober.  I  do  not  say 
that  forgetfulness  of  trumps  should  be  cul- 
tivated by  whist  players.  I  think  that 
builder  might  have  been  even  more  successful 
had  he  learned  to  write  his  name,  and  had  he 
occasionally  —  not  overdoing  it  —  enjoyed  a 
sober  evening.  All  I  wish  to  impress  is,  that 
virtue  is  not  the  road  to  success  —  of  the 
kind  we  are  dealing  with.  We  must  iind 
other  reasons  for  being  virtuous ;  maybe 
there  are  some.  The  truth  is,  life  is  a  gamble 
pure  and  simple,  and  the  rules  we  lay  down 
for  success  are  akin  to  the  infallible  systems 
with  which  a  certain  class  of  idiot  goes 
armed  each  season  to  Monte  Carlo.  We 
can  play  the  game  with  coolness  and  judg- 
ment, decide  when  to  plunge  and  when  to 
stake  small ;  but  to  think  that  wisdom  will 
decide  it,  is  to  imagine  that  we  have  dis- 
covered the  law  of  chance.  Let  us  play  the 
game  of  life  as  sportsmen,  pocketing  our 
winnings  with  a  smile,  leaving  our  losings 
with  a  shrug.     Perhaps  that  is  why  we  have 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   211 

been  summoned  to  the  board,  and  the  cards 
dealt  round :  that  we  may  learn  some  of  the 
virtues  of  the  good  gambler,  —  his  self-con- 
trol, his  courage  under  misfortune,  his 
modesty  under  the  strain  of  success,  his  firm- 
ness, his  alertness,  his  general  indifference  to 
fate.  Good  lessons  these,  all  of  them.  If 
by  the  game  we  learn  some  of  them,  our 
time  on  the  green  earth  has  not  been 
wasted.  If  we  rise  from  the  table  having 
learned  only  fretfulness  and  self-pity,  I  fear 
it  has  been. 

The  waiter  taps  at  the  door :  "  Number 
Five  hundred  billion  and  twenty-eight,  your 
boatman  is  waiting,  sir." 

So,  is  it  time  already  ?  We  pick  up  our 
counters.  Of  what  use  are  they  ?  In  the 
country  the  other  side  of  the  river  they  are 
no  tender.  The  blood-red  for  gold,  and  the 
pale  green  for  love,  to  whom  shall  we  i^ing 
them  ?  Here  is  some  poor  beggar  longing 
to  play,  let  us  give  them  to  him  as  we  pass 
out.  Poor  devil !  the  game  will  amuse  him 
—  for  a  while. 

Keep  your  powder  dry,  and  trust  in  Provi- 
dence, is  the  motto  of  the  wise.  Wet  pow- 
der could   never  be  of  any  possible  use  to 


2  12    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

you.  Dry,  It  may  be,  with  the  help  of 
Providence.  We  will  call  it  Providence,  It 
is  a  prettier  name  than  Chance,  —  perhaps 
also  a  truer. 

Another  mistake  we  make  when  we  reason 
out  our  lives  is  this :  we  reason  as  though 
we  were  planning  for  reasonable  creatures. 
It  is  a  big  mistake.  Well-meaning  ladies 
and  gentlemen  make  it  when  they  picture 
their  ideal  worlds.  When  marriage  is  re- 
formed, and  the  social  problem  solved,  when 
poverty  and  war  have  been  abolished  by 
acclamation,  and  sin  and  sorrow  rescinded 
by  an  overwhelming  parliamentary  majority  ! 
Ah,  then  the  world  will  be  worthy  of  our 
living  in  it.  You  need  not  wait,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  so  long  as  you  think  for  that 
time.  No  social  revolution  is  needed,  no 
slow  education  of  the  people  is  necessary. 
It  would  all  come  about  to-morrow,  if  only 
we  were  reasonable  creatures. 

Imagine  a  world  of  reasonable  beings ! 
The  ten  commandments  would  be  unneces- 
sary :  no  reasoning  being  sins,  no  reasoning 
creature  makes  mistakes.  There  would  be 
no  rich  men,  for  what  reasonable  man  cares 
for  luxury  and   ostentation.     There  would 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   213 

be  no  poor  that  I  should  eat  enough  for 
two,  while  my  brother  in  the  next  street,  as 
good  a  man  as  I,  starves,  is  not  reasonable 
There  would  be  no  difference  of  opinion  on 
any  two  points  :  there  is  only  one  reason. 
You,  dear  Reader,  would  find,  that  on  all 
subjects  you  were  of  the  same  opinion  as  I. 
No  novels  would  be  written,  no  plays  per- 
formed ;  the  lives  of  reasonable  creatures  do 
not  afford  drama.  No  mad  loves,  no  mad 
laughter,  no  scalding  tears,  no  fierce  unrea- 
soning, brief-lived  joys,  no  sorrows,  no  wild 
dreams,  —  only  reason,  reason  everywhere. 

But  for  the  present  we  remain  unreason- 
able. If  I  eat  this  mayonnaise,  drink  this 
champagne,  I  shall  suffer  in  my  liver.  Then 
why  do  I  eat  it  ?  Julia  is  a  charming  girl, 
amiable,  wise,  and  witty  ;  also  she  has  a  share 
in  a  brewery.  Then,  why  does  John  marry 
Ann  ?  who  is  short-tempered,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  who,  he  feels,  will  not  make  him 
so  good  a  house-wife,  who  has  extravagant 
notions,  who  has  no  little  fortune.  There  is 
something  about  Ann's  chin  that  fascinates 
him, —  he  could  not  explain  to  you  what. 
On  the  whole,  Julia  is  the  better  looking  of 
the  two.     But  the  more  he  thinks  of  Julia, 


2  14-    On  the  Time  wasted  In 

the  more  he  is  drawn  towards  Ann.  So 
Tom  marries  Julia,  and  the  brewery  fails, 
and  Julia,  on  a  holiday,  contracts  rheumatic 
fever,  and  is  a  helpless  invalid  for  life;  while 
Ann  comes  in  for  ten  thousand  pounds  left 
to  her  by  an  Australian  uncle  no  one  had 
ever  heard  of 

I  have  been  told  of  a  young  man  who 
chose  his  wife  with  excellent  care.  Said  he 
to  himself,  very  wisely,  "In  the  selection  of 
a  wife  a  man  cannot  be  too  circumspect." 
He  convinced  himself  that  the  girl  was 
everything  a  helpmate  should  be.  She  had 
every  virtue  that  could  be  expected  in  a 
woman,  no  faults,  but  such  as  are  inseparable 
from  a  woman.  Speaking  practically,  she 
was  perfection.  He  married  her,  and  found 
she  was  all  he  had  thought  her.  Only  one 
thing  could  he  urge  against  her,  —  that  he 
did  not  like  her.  And  that,  of  course,  was 
not  her  fault. 

How  easy  life  would  be  did  we  know  our- 
selves ;  could  we  always  be  sure  that  to- 
morrow we  should  think  as  we  do  to-day. 
We  fall  in  love  during  a  summer  holiday  ; 
she  is  fresh,  delightful,  altogether  charming  ; 
the  blood  rushes  to  our  head  every  time  we 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   215 

think  of  her.  Our  ideal  career  is  one  of 
perpetual  service  at  her  feet.  It  seems  im- 
possible that  Fate  could  bestow  upon  us  any 
greater  happiness  than  the  privilege  of  clean- 
ing her  boots,  and  kissing  the  hem  of  her 
garment,  —  if  the  hem  be  a  little  muddy  that 
will  please  us  the  more.  We  tell  her  our 
ambition,  and  at  that  moment  every  word 
we  utter  is  sincere.  But  the  summer  holi- 
day passes,  and  with  it  the  holiday  mood, 
and  winter  finds  us  wondering  how  we  are 
going  to  get  out  of  the  difficulty  into  which 
we  have  landed  ourselves.  Or,  worse  still, 
perhaps,  the  mood  lasts  longer  than  is 
usual.  We  become  formally  engaged.  We 
marry,  —  I  wonder  how  many  marriages  are 
the  result  of  a  passion  that  is  burnt  out 
before  t^J  altar-rails  are  reached .?  —  and 
three  months  afterwards  the  little  lass  is 
broken-hearted  to  find  that  we  consider  the 
lacing  of  her  boots  a  bore.  Her  feet  seem 
to  have  grown  bigger.  There  is  no  excuse 
for  us,  save  that  we  are  silly  children,  never 
sure  of  what  we  are  crying  for,  hurting  one 
another  in  our  play,  crying  very  loudly  when 
hurt  ourselves. 

I  knew  an  American  lady  once  who  used 


2 1 6    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

to  bore  me  with  long  accounts  of  the  brutal- 
ities exercised  upon  her  by  her  husband. 
She  had  instituted  divorce  proceedings 
against  him.  The  trial  came  on,  and  she 
was  highly  successful.  We  all  congratulated 
her,  and  then  for  some  months  she  dropped 
out  of  my  life.  But  there  came  a  day  when 
we  again  found  ourselves  together.  One  of 
the  problems  of  social  life  is  to  know  what 
to  say  to  one  another  when  we  meet ;  every 
man  and  woman's  desire  is  to  appear  sym- 
pathetic and  clever,  and  this  makes  conver- 
sation difficult,  because,  taking  us  all  round, 
we  are  r.either  sympathetic  nor  clever,  —  but 
this  by  the  way.  Of  course,  I  began  to 
talk  to  her  about  her  former  husband.  I 
asked  her  how  he  was  getting  on.  She 
replied  that  she  thought  he  was  very 
comfortable. 

"  Married  again  ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  Serve  him  right,"  I  exclaimed,  "  and 
his  wife  too."  She  was  a  pretty,  bright-eyed 
litde  woman,  my  American  friend,  and  I 
wished  to  ingratiate  myself  "  A  woman 
who  would  marry  such  a  m.an,  knowing 
what  she  must  have  known  of  him,  is  sure 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   2  i 


to  make  him  wretched,  and  we  may  trust 
him  to  be  a  curse  to  her." 

My  friend  seemed  inclined  to  defend 
him. 

"  I  think  he  is  greatly  improved,"  she 
argued. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  I  returned,  "  a  man  never 
improves.      Once  a  villain,  always  a  villain." 

"  Oh,  hush  !  "  she  pleaded,"  you  must  n't 
call  him  that." 

"Why  not?"  I  answered.  "I  have 
heard  you  call  him  a  villain  yourself." 

"  It  was  wrong  of  me,"  she  said,  flushing. 
"  I  'm  afraid  he  was  no^  the  only  one  to 
be  blamed;  we  were  both  foolish  in  those 
days,  but  I  think  we  have  both  learned  a 
lesson." 

I  remained  silent,  waiting  for  the  neces- 
sary explanation. 

"  You  had  better  come  and  see  him  for 
yourself,"  she  added,  with  a  little  laugh ; 
"  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  the  woman  who  has 
married  him.  Tuesday  is  my  day.  Number 
2,  K Mansions,"  and  she  ran  off,  leav- 
ing me  staring  after  her. 

I  believe  an  enterprising  clergyman  who 
would  set  up  a  little  church  in  the  Strand, 


2i8    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

just  outside  the  Law  Courts,  might  do  quite 
a  trade,  re-marrying  couples  who  had  just 
been  divorced.  A  friend  of  mine,  a  re- 
spondent, told  me  he  had  never  loved  his 
wife  more  than  on  two  occasions, —  the  first, 
when  she  refused  him ;  the  second,  when  she 
came  into  the  witness-box  to  give  evidence 
against  him. 

"You  are  curious  creatures,  you  men," 
remarked  a  lady  once  to  another  man  in  my 
presence.  "  You  never  seem  to  know  your 
own  mind." 

She  was  feeling  annoyed  with  men  gener- 
ally. I  do  not  blame  her;  I  feel  annoyed 
with  them  myself  sometimes.  There  is  one 
man  in  particular  I  am  always  feeling  intensely 
irritated  against.  He  says  one  thing,  and 
acts  another.  He  will  talk  like  a  saint,  and 
behave  like  a  fool,  knows  what  is  right,  and 
does  what  is  wrong.  But  we  will  not  speak 
further  of  him.  He  will  be  all  he  should  be 
one  day,  and  then  we  will  pack  him  into  a 
nice,  comfortably-lined  box,  and  screw  the 
lid  down  tight  upon  him,  and  put  him  away 
in  a  quiet  little  spot  near  a  church  I  know  of, 
lest  he  should  get  up  and  misbehave  himself 
again. 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   219 

The  other  man,  who  is  a  wise  man  as  men 
go,  looked  at  bis  fair  critic  with  a  smile. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  he  replied,  "  you  are 
blaming  the  wrong  person.  I  confess  I  do 
not  know  my  mind,  and  what  little  I  do 
know  of  it  I  do  not  like.  I  did  not  make 
it ;  I  did  not  select  it.  I  am  more  dissatis- 
fied with  it  than  you  can  possibly  be.  It 
is  a  greater  mystery  to  me  than  it  is  to  you, 
and  I  have  to  live  with  it.  You  should  pity, 
not  blame  me." 

There  are  moods  in  which  I  fall  to  envy- 
ing those  old  hermits  who  frankly,  and  with 
courageous  cowardice,  shirked  the  problem 
of  life.  There  are  days  when  I  dream  of  an 
existence  unfettered  by  the  thousand  petty 
strings  with  which  our  souls  lie  bound  to 
Lilliputia  land.  I  picture  myself  living  in 
some  Norwegian  sater,  high  above  the  black 
waters  of  a  rock-bound  fiord.  No  other 
human  creature  disputes  with  me  my  king- 
dom. I  am  alone  with  the  whispering  fir 
forests  and  the  stars.  How  I  live  I  am  not 
quite  sure.  Once  a  month  I  could  journey 
down  into  the  villages,  and  return  laden.  I 
should  not  need  much.  For  the  rest,  my 
gun  and  fishing-rod  would   supply  me.     1 


2  20    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

would  have  with  me  a  couple  of  big  dogs, 
who  would  talk  to  me  with  their  eyes,  so 
full  of  dumb  thought ;  and  together  we 
would  wander  over  the  uplands,  seeking  our 
dinner,  after  the  old  primitive  fashion  of  the 
men  who  dreamt  not  of  ten  course  dinners 
and  Savoy  suppers.  I  would  cook  the  food 
myself,  and  sit  down  to  the  meal  with  a 
bottle  of  good  wine,  such  as  starts  a  man's 
thoughts  (for  I  am  inconsistent,  as  I  ac- 
knowledge, and  that  gift  of  civilisation  I 
would  bear  with  me  into  my  hermitage). 
Then  in  the  evening,  with  pipe  in  mouth, 
beside  my  log-wood  fire,  I  would  sit  and 
think,  until  new  knowledge  came  to  me. 
Strengthened  by  those  silent  voices  that 
are  drowned  in  the  roar  of  Streetland,  I 
might,  perhaps,  grow  into  something  nearer 
to  what  it  was  intended  that  a  man  should 
be,  —  might  catch  a  glimpse,  perhaps,  of  the 
meaning  of  life. 

No,  no,  my  dear  lady,  into  this  life  of 
renunciation  I  would  not  take  a  companion, 
certainly  not  of  the  sex  you  are  thinking  of 
—  even  would  she  care  to  come,  which  I 
doubt.  There  are  times  when  a  man  is 
better  without  the  woman,  when  a  woman  is 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps    221 

better  without  the  man.  Love  drags  us 
from  the  depths,  makes  men  and  women  of 
us,  but  if  we  would  climb  a  little  nearer  to 
the  stars  we  must  say  good-bye  to  it.  We 
men  and  women  do  not  show  ourselves  to 
each  other  at  our  best ;  too  often,  I  fear,  at 
our  worst.  The  woman's  highest  ideal  of 
man  is  the  lover ;  to  a  man  the  woman  is 
always  the  possible  beloved.  We  see  each 
other's  hearts,  but  not  each  other's  souls. 
In  each  other's  presence  we  never  shake 
ourselves  free  from  the  earth.  Match- 
making mother  Nature  is  always  at  hand  to 
prompt  us.  A  woman  lifts  us  up  into 
manhood,  but  there  she  would  have  us  stay. 
"  Climb  up  to  me,"  she  cries  to  the  lad, 
walking  with  soiled  feet  in  muddy  ways  : 
"  be  a  true  man,  that  you  may  be  worthy  to 
walk  by  my  side  ;  be  brave  to  protect  me, 
kind  and  tender  and  true ;  but  climb  no 
higher;  stay  here  by  my  side."  The  martyr, 
the  prophet,  the  leader  of  the  world's  forlorn 
hopes,  she  would  wake  from  his  dream. 
Her  arms  she  would  fling  about  his  neck 
holding  him  down. 

To  the  woman  the  man  says,  "You   are 
my  wife.       Here    is  your   America,   within 


2  22    On  the  Time  wasted  in 

these  walls ;  here  is  your  work,  your  duty." 
True,  in  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  cases 
out  of  every  thousand ;  but  men  and  women 
are  not  made  in  moulds,  and  the  world's 
work  is  various.  Sometimes,  to  her  sorrow, 
a  woman's  work  Hes  beyond  the  home.  The 
duty  of  Mary  was  not  to  Joseph. 

The  hero  in  the  popular  novel  is  the 
young  man  who  says,  "  I  love  you  bettei 
than  my  soul."  Our  favourite  heroine  in 
fiction  is  the  woman  who  cries  to  her  lover, 
"  I  would  go  down  into  Hell  to  be  with 
you."  There  are  men  and  women  who  can- 
not answer  thus — the  men  who  dream 
dreams,  the  women  who  see  visions  —  im- 
practicable people  from  the  Bayswater  point 
of  view.  But  Bayswater  would  not  be  the 
abode  of  peace  it  is  had  it  not  been  for 
such. 

Have  we  not  placed  sexual  love  on  a  ped- 
estal higher  than  it  deserves  ?  It  is  a  noble 
passion,  but  it  is  not  the  noblest.  There  is  a 
wider  love  by  the  side  of  which  it  is  but  as 
the  lamp  illuminating  the  cottage,  to  the 
moonlight  bathing  the  hills  and  valleys. 
There  were  two  women  once.  This  is  a  play 
I  saw  :icted  in  the  daylight     They  had  been 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps   223 

friends  from  girlhood,  till  there  came  be- 
tween them  the  usual  trouble,  —  a  man.  A 
weak,  pretty  creature  not  worth  a  thought 
from  either  of  them ;  but  women  love  the 
unworthy  ;  there  would  be  no  over-popula- 
tion problem  did  they  not ;  and  this  poor 
specimen  ill-luck  had  ordained  they  should 
contend  for. 

Their  rivalry  brought  out  all  that  was 
»vorst  in  both  of  them.  It  is  a  mistake  to 
suppose  love  only  elevates ;  it  can  debase. 
It  was  a  mean  struggle  for  what  to  an  onlooker 
must  have  appeared  a  remarkably  unsatis- 
fying prize.  The  loser  might  well  have  left 
the  conqueror  to  her  poor  triumph,  even 
granting  it  had  been  gained  unfairly.  But 
the  old,  ugly,  primeval  passions  had  been 
stirred  in  these  women,  and  the  wedding 
bells  closed  only  the  first  act. 

The  second  is  not  difficult  to  guess.  It 
would  have  ended  in  the  Divorce  Court  had 
not  the  deserted  wife  felt  that  a  finer  revenge 
would  be  secured  to  her  by  silence. 

In  the  third,  after  an  Interval  of  only 
eighteen  months,  the  man  died,  —  the  first 
piece  of  good  fortune  that  seem?  to  have 


2  24  On  the  Time  wasted  In 

occurred  to  him  personally  throughout  the 
play.  His  position  must  have  been  an  ex- 
ceedingly anxious  one  from  the  beginning. 
Notwithstanding  his  flabbiness,  one  cannot 
but  regard  him  with  a  certain  amount  of  pity, 
not  unmixed  with  amusement.  Most  of 
life's  dramas  can  be  viewed  as  either  farce  or 
tragedy  according  to  the  whim  of  the  spec- 
tator. The  actors  invariably  play  them  as 
tragedy ;  but  then  that  is  the  essence  of 
good  farce  acting. 

Thus  was  secured  the  triumph  of  legal 
virtue  and  the  punishment  of  irregularity, 
and  the  play  might  be  dismissed  as  un- 
interestingly orthodox  were  it  not  for  the 
fourth  act,  showing  how  the  wronged  wife 
came  to  the  woman  she  had  once  wronged  to 
ask  and  grant  forgiveness.  Strangely  as  it 
may  sound,  they  found  their  love  for  one 
another  unchanged.  They  had  been  long 
parted ;  it  was  sweet  to  hold  each  other's 
hands  again.  Two  lonely  women,  they 
agreed  to  live  together.  Those  who  knew 
them  well  in  this  later  time  say  that  their 
life  was  very  beautiful,  filled  with  gracious- 
ness  and  nobility. 


Looking  Before  One  Leaps    225 

I  do  not  say  that  such  a  story  could  ever 
be  common,  but  it  is  more  probable  than 
the  world  might  credit.  Sometimes  the 
man  is  better  without  the  woman,  the  woman 
without  the  man. 


ON   THE    NOBILITY   OF 
OURSELVES 


AN  old  Anglicised  Frenchman,  I  used  to 
meet  often  in  my  earlier  journalistic 
days,  held  a  theory  concerning  man's  future 
state  that  has  since  come  to  afford  me  more 
food  for  reflection  th?n  at  the  time  I  should 
have  deemed  possible.  He  was  a  bright- 
eyed,  eager  little  man.  One  felt  no  Lotus 
land  could  be  Paradise  to  him.  We  build 
our  heaven  of  the  stones  of  our  desires :  to 
the  old,  red-bearded  Norseman,  a  foe  to  fight 
and  a  cup  to  drain ;  to  the  artistic  Greek,  a 
grove  of  animated  statuary ;  to  the  Red 
Indian,  his  happy  hunting-ground ;  to  the 
Turk,  his  harem  ;  to  the  Jew,  his  New  Jeru- 
salem paved  with  gold ;  to  others,  according 
to  their  taste,  limited  by  the  range  of  their 
imagination. 

Few  things  had  more  terrors  for  me,  when 
a  cnifd,  than  Heaven,  as  pictured  for  me 
by  certain  of  the  good  folks  round  about  me. 


Nobility  of  Ourselves    227 

I  was  told  that  if  I  were  a  good  lad,  kept  my 
hair  tidy,  and  did  not  tease  the  cat,  I  would 
probably,  when  I  died,  go  to  a  place  where 
all  day  long  I  would  sit  still  and  sing  hymns. 
(Think  of  it !  as  reward  to  a  healthy  boy  for 
being  good.)  There  would  be  no  breakfast 
and  no  dinner,  no  tea  and  no  supper.  One 
old  lady  cheered  me  a  little  with  a  hint  that 
the  monotony  might  be  broken  by  a  !ittle 
manna ;  but  the  idea  of  everlasting  manna 
palled  upon  me,  and  my  suggestions  con- 
cerning the  possibilities  of  sherbet  or  jumbles 
were  scouted  as  irreverent.  There  would  be 
no  school,  but  also  there  would  be  no  cricket 
and  no  rounders.  I  should  feel  no  desire, 
so  I  was  assured,  to  do  another  angel's 
"dags"  by  sliding  down  the  heavenly  ban- 
isters.     My  only  joy  would  be  to  sing. 

"Shall  we  start  singing  the  moment  we 
get  up   in    the   morning  ? "      I    asked. 

"  There  won't  be  any  morning,"  was  the 
answer.  "  There  will  be  no  day  and  no  night. 
It  will  all  be  one  long  day  without  end." 

"  And  shall  v/e  always  be  singing  ? "  I 
persisted. 

"  Yes,  you  will  be  so  happy  you  will  always 
want  to  sing." 


2  28        On  the  Nobility 

"  Sha'n  t  I  ever  get  tired  ?  " 

"No,  you  will  never  get  tired,  and  you 
will  never  get  sleepy  or  hungry  or  thirsty." 

"  And  does  it  go  on  like  that  for  ever  ?  ** 

"  Yes,  for  ever  and  ever." 

"  Will  it  go  on  for  a  million  years  ?  " 

**  Yes,  a  million  years,  and  then  another 
million  years,  and  then  another  million  years 
after  that.  There  will  never  be  any  end  to 
it." 

I  can  remember  to  this  day  the  agony  of 
those  nights,  when  I  would  lie  awake,  think- 
ing of  this  endless  heaven,  from  which  there 
seemed  to  be  no  possible  escape ;  for  the 
other  place  was  equally  eternal,  or  I  might 
have  been  tempted  to  seek  refuge  there. 

We  grown-up  folk,  our  brains  dulled  by 
the  slowly  acquired  habit  of  not  thinking,  do 
wrong  to  torture  children  with  these  awful 
themes.  Eternity,  Heaven,  Hell,  are  mean- 
ingless words  to  us.  We  repeat  them,  as 
we  gabble  our  prayers,  telling  our  smug, 
self-satisfied  selves  that  we  are  miserable  sin- 
ners. But  to  the  child,  the  "  intelligent 
stranger  "  in  the  land,  seeking  to  know,  they 
are  fearful  realities.  If  you  doubt  me, 
Reader,  stand  by  yourself  beneath  the  stars, 


of  Ourselves  229 

one  night,  and  solve  this  thought,  Eternity. 
Your  next  address  shall  be  the  County 
Lunatic  Asylum. 

My  actively  inclined  French  friend  held 
cheerier  views  than  are  common  of  man's 
life  beyond  the  grave.  His  belief  was  that 
we  were  destined  to  constant  change,  to  ever- 
lasting work.  We  were  to  pass  through  the 
older  planets,  to  labour  in  the  greater  suns. 

But  for  such  advanced  career  a  more 
capable  being  was  needed.  No  one  of  us 
was  sufficient,  he  argued,  to  be  granted  a 
future  existence  all  to  himself  His  idea 
was  that  two  or  three  or  four  of  us,  according 
to  our  intrinsic  value,  would  be  combined 
to  make  a  new  and  more  important  individ- 
uality, fitted  for  a  higher  existence.  Man, 
he  pointed  out,  was  already  a  collection  of 
the  beasts.  "You  and  I,"  he  would  say, 
tapping  first  my  chest  and  then  his  own,  "  we 
have  them  all  here,  —  the  ape,  the  tiger,  the 
pig,  the  motherly  hen,  the  gamecock,  the 
good  ant ;  we  are  all,  rolled  into  one.  So 
the  man  of  the  future,  he  will  be  made  up  of 
many  men,  —  the  courage  of  one,  the  wisdom 
of  another,  the  kindliness  of  a  third. 

"  Take  a  city  man,"  he  would  continue, 


230        On  the  Nobility 

"  say  the  Lord  Mayor  ;  add  to  him  a  poet, 
say  Swinburne  ;  mix  them  with  a  rehgious 
enthusiast,  say  General  Booth.  There  you 
will  have  the  man  fit  for  the  higher  life." 

Garibaldi  and  Bismarck,  he  held,  should 
make  a  very  fine  mixture,  correcting  one 
another;  if  needful,  extract  of  Ibsen  might 
be  added,  as  seasoning.  He  thought  that 
Irish  politicians  would  mix  admirably  with 
Scotch  divines  ;  that  Oxford  Dons  would  go 
well  with  lady  novelists.  He  was  convinced 
that  Count  Tolstoi,  a  few  gaiety  Johnnies 
(we  called  them  "  mashers  "  in  those  days), 
together  with  a  humourist,  —  he  was  kind 
enough  to  suggest  myself,  —  would  produce 
something  very  choice.  Queen  Elizabeth, 
he  fancied,  was  probably  being  reserved  to 
go  —  let  us  hope  in  the  long  distant  future 
— ■  with  Ouida.  It  sounds  a  whimsical  theory 
set  down  here  in  my  words,  not  his  ;  but  the 
old  fellow  was  so  much  in  earnest  that  few  of 
us  ever  thought  to  laugh  as  he  talked.  In- 
deed, there  were  moments  on  starry  nights, 
as,  walking  home  from  the  office,  we  would 
pause  on  Waterloo  Bridge  to  enjoy  the 
witchery  of  the  long  line  of  the  Embank- 
ment lights,  when  I  could  almost  believe,  as 


of  Ourselves  231 

I  listened  to  him,  in  the  not  Impossibility  of 
his  dreams. 

Even  as  regards  this  world,  it  would  often 
be  a  gain,  one  thinks,  and  no  loss,  if  some 
half-dozen  of  us  were  rolled  together,  or 
boiled  down,  or  whatever  the  process  neces- 
sary might  be,  and  something  made  out  of 
us  in  that  way. 

Have  not  you,  my  fair  Reader,  sometimes 
thought  to  yourself  what  a  delightful  hus- 
band Tom  this,  plus  Harry  that,  plus  Dick 
the  other,  would  make  ?  Tom  is  always  so 
cheerful  and  good-tempered,  yet  you  feel 
that  in  the  serious  moments  of  life  he  would 
be  lacking.  A  delightful  hubby  when  you 
felt  merry,  yes  ;  but  you  would  not  go  to 
him  for  comfort  and  strength  in  your 
troubles,  now  would  you  ?  No,  in  your 
hour  of  sorrow,  how  good  it  would  be  to 
have  near  you  grave,  earnest  Harry!  He  is 
a  "  good  sort,"  Harry.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
he  is  the  best  of  the  three,  —  solid,  stanch, 
and  true.  What  a  pity  he  is  just  a  trifle  com- 
monplace and  unambitious  !  Your  friends, 
not  knowing  his  sterling  hidden  qualities, 
would  hardly  envy  you;  and  a  husband 
that  no  other  girl  envies   you  —  well,  that 


232        On  the  Nobility 

^ould  hardly  be  satisfactory,  would  it? 
Dick,  on  the  other  hand,  is  clever  and  bril- 
liant. He  will  make  his  way;  there  will 
come  a  day,  you  are  convinced,  when  a 
woman  will  be  proud  to  bear  his  name.  If 
only  he  were  not  so  self-centered,  if  only  he 
were  more  sympathetic  ! 

But  a  combination  of  the  three,  or  rather 
of  the  best  qualities  of  the  three,  —  Tom's 
good  temper,  Harry's  tender  strength,  Dick's 
brilliant  masterfulness,  —  that  is  the  man  who 
would  be  worthy  of  you. 

The  woman  David  Copperfield  wanted  was 
Agnes  and  Dora  rolled  into  one.  He  had 
to  take  them  one  after  the  other,  which  was 
not  so  nice.  And  did  he  really  love  Agnes, 
Mr.  Dickens ;  or  merely  feel  he  ought  to } 
Forgive  me,  but  I  am  doubtful  concerning 
that  second  marriage  of  Copperfield's.  Come, 
strictly  between  ourselves,  Mr.  Dickens,  was 
not  David,  good  human  soul !  now  and 
again  a  wee  bit  bored  by  the  immaculate 
Agnes  ?  She  made  him  an  excellent  wife,  I 
am  sure.  She  never  ordered  oysters  by  the 
barrel,  unopened.  It  would,  on  any  day, 
have  been  safe  to  ask  Traddles  home  to 
dinner-;  in  fact,  Sophie  and  the  whole  rose- 


of  Ourselves  233 

garden  might  have  accompanied  him  ;  Agnes 
would  have  been  equal  to  the  occasion. 
The  dinner  would  have  been  perfectly 
cooked  and  served,  and  Agnes'  sweet  smik 
would  have  pervaded  the  meal.  But  after 
the  dinner,  when  David  and  Traddles  sat 
smoking  alone,  while  from  the  drawing-room 
drifted  down  the  notes  of  high  class,  eleva- 
ting music,  played  by  the  saintly  Agnes,  did 
they  never,  glancing  covertly  towards  the 
empty  chair  between  them,  see  the  laughing, 
curl-framed  face  of  a  very  foolish  little 
woman,  — one  of  those  foolish  little  women 
that  a  wise  man  thanks  God  for  making,  — 
and  wish,  in  spite  of  all,  that  it  were  flesh 
and  blood,  not  shadow. 

Oh,  you  foolish  wise  folk,  who  would  re- 
model human  nature  !  Cannot  you  see  how 
great  is  the  work  given  unto  childish  hands? 
Think  you  that  in  well-ordered  housekeep- 
ing and  high-class  conversation  lies  the  whole 
making  of  a  man  ?  Foolish  Dora,  fashioned 
by  clever  old  magician  Nature,  who  knows 
that  weakness  and  helplessness  are  as  a  talis- 
man calling  forth  strength  and  tenderness  in 
man,  trouble  yourself  not  unduly  about  those 
oysters    nor    the   underdone    mutton,   littl© 


2  34        On  the  Nobility 

woman.  Good  plain  cooks  at  twenty  pounds 
a  year  will  see  to  these  things  for  us ;  and, 
now  and  then,  when  a  windfall  comes  our 
way,  we  will  dine  together  at  a  moderate- 
priced  restaurant  where  these  things  are 
managed  even  better.  Your  work,  Dear,  is 
to  teach  us  gentleness  and  kindliness.  Lay 
your  curls  here,  child.  It  is  from  such  as 
you  that  we  learn  wisdom.  Foolish  wise 
folk  sneer  at  you  ;  foolish  wise  folk  would 
pull  up  the  useless  lilies,  the  needless  roses, 
from  the  garden,  would  plant  in  their  places 
only  serviceable,  wholesome  cabbage.  But 
the  Gardener,  knowing  better,  plants  the 
silly  short-lived  flowers ;  foolish  wise  folk 
asking  for  what  purpose. 

As  for  Agnes,  Mr.  Dickens,  do  you  know 
what  she  always  makes  me  think  of?  You 
will  not  mind  my  saying?  —  the  woman  one 
reads  about.  Frankly,  I  don't  believe  in 
her.  I  do  not  refer  to  Agnes  in  particular, 
but  the  women  of  whom  she  is  a  type,  the 
faultless  women  we  read  of  Women  have 
many  faults,  but,  thank  God,  they  have  one 
redeeming  virtue,  —  they  are  none  of  them 
faultless. 

But  the  heroine  of  fiction  !  oh,  a  terrib-V 


of  Ourselves  235 

dragon  of  virtue  is  she.  May  Heaven  pre- 
serve us  poor  men,  undeserving  though  we 
be,  from  a  life  with  the  heroine  of  fiction  ! 
She  is  all  soul  and  heart  and  intellect,  with 
never  a  bit  of  human  nature  to  catch  hold 
of  her  by.  Her  beauty,  it  appalls  one,  it  is 
so  painfully  indescribable.  Whence  comes 
she,  whither  goes  she,  why  do  we  never  meet 
her  like  ?  Of  women  I  know  a  goodish  few, 
and  I  look  among  them  for  her  prototype ; 
but  I  find  it  not.  They  are  charming,  they 
are  beautiful,  all  these  women  that  I  know. 
It  would  not  be  right  for  me  to  tell  you, 
Ladies,  the  esteem  and  veneration  with  which 
I  regard  you  all.  You  yourselves,  blushing, 
would  be  the  first  to  check  my  ardour.  But 
yet,  dear  Ladies,  seen  even  through  my  eyes, 
you  come  not  near  the  ladies  that  I  read 
about.  You  are  not  —  if  I  may  be  permitted 
an  expressive  vulgarism  —  in  the  same  street 
with  them.  Your  beauty  I  can  look  upon 
and  retain  my  reason  —  for  whatever  value 
that  may  be  to  me.  Your  conversation,  I 
admit,  is  clever  and  brilliant  in  the  extreme ; 
your  knowledge  vast  and  various ;  your  cul- 
ture quite  Bostonian  ;  yet  you  do  not — I 
hardly  know   how   to   express  it  —  you   do 


236        On  the  Nobility 

not  shine  with  the  sixteen  full-moon-powei 
of  the  heroine  of  fiction.  You  do  not  —  and 
I  thank  you  for  it  —  impress  me  with  the 
idea  that  you  are  the  only  women  on  earth. 
You,  even  you,  possess  tempers  of  your 
own.  I  am  inclined  to  think  you  take  an 
interest  in  your  clothes.  I  would  not  be 
sure,  even,  that  you  do  not  mingle  a  little  of 
"  your  own  hair "  (you  know  what  I  mean) 
with  the  hair  of  your  head.  There  is  in 
your  temperament  a  vein  of  vanity,  a  sug- 
gestion of  selfishness,  a  spice  of  laziness.  I 
have  known  you  a  trifle  unreasonable,  a  little 
inconsiderate,  slightly  exacting.  Unlike  the 
heroine  of  fiction,  you  have  a  certain  number 
of  human  appetites  and  instincts ;  a  few 
human  follies,  perhaps  a  human  fault,  or 
shall  we  say  two  ?  In  short,  dear  Ladies, 
you  also,  even  as  we  men,  are  the  children 
of  Adam  and  Eve.  Tell  me,  if  you  know, 
where  I  may  meet  with  this  supernatural 
sister  of  yours,  this  woman  that  one  reads 
about.  She  never  keeps  any  one  waiting 
while  she  does  her  back  hair;  she  is  never 
indignant  with  everybody  else  in  the  house 
because  she  cannot  find  her  own  boots  ;  she 
never  scolds  the  servants  ;  she  is  never  cross 


of  Ourselves  237 

with  the  children  ;  she  never  slams  the  door ; 
she  is  never  jealous  of  her  younger  sister ;  she 
never  lingers  at  the  gate  with  any  cousin  but 
the  right  one. 

Dear  me !  where  do  they  keep  them,  these 
women  that  one  reads  about  ?  I  suppose 
where  they  keep  the  pretty  girl  of  Art. 
You  have  seen  her,  have  you  not.  Reader, 
the  pretty  girl  in  the  picture  ?  She  leaps 
the  six-barred  gate  with  a  yard  and  a  half  to 
spare,  turning  round  in  her  saddle  the  while 
to  make  some  smiling  remark  to  the  comic 
man  behind,  who  of  course  is  standing  on 
his  head  in  the  ditch.  She  floats  gracefully 
off  Dieppe  on  stormy  mornings.  Her  bai- 
gnoire—  generally  of  chiffon  and  old  point 
lace  —  has  not  lost  a  curve.  The  older 
ladies,  bathing  round  her,  look  wet.  Their 
dress  clings  damply  to  their  limbs.  But  the 
pretty  girl  of  Art  dives,  and  never  a  curl  of 
her  hair  is  disarranged.  The  pretty  girl  of 
Art  stands  lightly  on  tiptoe  and  volleys  a 
tennis  ball  six  feet  above  her  head.  The 
pretty  girl  of  Art  keeps  the  head  of  the 
punt  straight  against  a  stiff  current  and  a 
strong  wind.  She  never  gets  the  water  up 
her  sleeve  and  down  her  back  and  all  over 


238        On  the  Nobility 

the  cushions.  Her  pole  never  sticks  in  the 
mud,  with  the  steam  launch  ten  yards  off 
and  the  man  looking  the  other  way.  The 
pretty  girl  of  Art  skates  in  high-heeled 
French  shoes  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  to  the 
surface  of  the  ice,  both  hands  in  her  muff. 
She  never  sits  down  plump,  with  her  feet 
a  yard  apart,  and  says,  "  Ough !  "  The 
pretty  girl  of  Art  drives  tandem  down  Pic- 
cadilly, during  the  height  of  the  season,  at 
eighteen  miles  an  hour.  It  never  occurs  to 
her  leader  that  the  time  has  now  arrived  for 
him  to  turn  round  and  get  into  the  cart. 
The  pretty  girl  of  Art  rides  her  bicycle 
through  the  town  on  market  day,  carrying 
a  basket  of  eggs  and  smiling  right  and  left. 
She  never  throws  away  both  her  handles  and 
runs  into  a  cow.  The  pretty  girl  of  Art  goes 
trout  fishing  in  open-work  stockings,  under  a 
blazing  sun,  with  a  bunch  of  dew-bespangled 
primroses  in  her  hair  ;  and  every  time  she 
gracefully  flicks  her  rod  she  hauls  out  a 
salmon.  She  never  ties  herself  up  to  a  tree, 
or  hooks  the  dog.  She  never  comes  home, 
soaked  and  disagreeable,  to  tell  you  that  she 
caught  six,  but  put  them  all  back  again, 
because    they    were    merely    two    or     three 


of  Ourselves  239 

pounders,  and  not  worth  the  trouble  of 
carrying.  The  pretty  girl  of  Art  plays 
croquet  with  one  hand,  and  looks  as  if  she 
enjoyed  the  game.  She  never  tries  to  acci- 
dentally kick  her  ball  into  position  when 
nobody  is  noticing,  or  stands  it  out  that 
she  is  through  a  hoop  that  she  knows  she 
is  n't. 

She  is  a  good,  all-round  sportswoman.  Is 
the  pretty  girl  in  the  picture.  The  only 
thing  I  have  to  say  against  her  is  that  she 
makes  one  dissatisfied  with  the  girl  out  of 
the  picture,  —  the  girl  who  mistakes  a  punt 
for  a  teetotum,  so  that  you  land  feeling  as 
if  you  had  had  a  day  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay ; 
and  who,  every  now  and  again,  stuns  you  with 
the  thick  end  of  the  pole  :  the  girl  who 
does  not  skate  with  her  hands  in  her  muff, 
but  who,  throwing  them  up  to  Heaven,  says, 
"  I  'm  going,"  and  who  goes,  taking  care 
that  you  go  with  her  ;  the  girl  who,  as  you 
brush  her  down  and  try  to  comfort  her,  ex- 
plains to  you  indignantly  that  the  horse  took 
the  corner  too  sharply  and  never  noticed 
the  milestone  ;  the  girl  whose  hair  sea-water 
does  not  improve. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it :  that  is 


240        On  the  Nobility 

where  they  keep  the  good  woman  of  Fiction, 
where  they  keep  the  pretty  girl  of  Art. 

Dees  it  not  occur  to  you,  Messieurs  les 
Auteurs,  that  you  are  sadly  disturbing  us? 
These  women  that  are  a  combination  of 
Venus,  St.  Cecilia,  and  Elizabeth  Fry^.  you 
paint  them  for  us  in  your  glowing  pages ;  it 
is  not  kind  of  you,  knowing,  as  you  must, 
the  women  we  have  to  put  up  with. 

Would  we  not  be  happier,  we  men  and 
women,  were  we  to  idealise  one  another  less  '^. 
My  dear  young  Lady,  you  have  nothing 
whatever  to  complain  to  Fate  about,  I  assure 
you.  Unclasp  those  pretty  hands  of  yours, 
and  come  away  from  the  darkening  window. 
Jack  is  as  good  a  fellow  as  you  deserve ; 
don't  yearn  so  much.  Sir  Galahad,  my  dear, 
—  Sir  Galahad  rides  and  fights  in  the  land 
that  lies  beyond  the  sunset,  far  enough  away 
from  this  noisy  little  earth,  where  you  and  I 
spend  much  of  our  time  tittle-tattling,  flirt- 
ing, wearing  fine  clothes,  and  going  to  shows. 
And,  besides,  you  must  remember  Sir  Gala- 
had was  a  bachelor ;  as  an  idealist  he  was 
wise.  Your  Jack  is  by  no  means  a  bad  sort 
of  knight,  as  knights  go  nowadays  in  this 
un-idyllic    world.       There    is    much    solid 


of  Ourselves  241 

honesty  about  him,  and  he  does  not  pose. 
He  is  not  exceptional,  I  grant  you  ;  but,  my 
dear,  have  you  ever  tried  the  exceptional 
man  !  Yes,  he  is  very  nice  in  a  drawing- 
room,  and  it  is  interesting  to  read  about  him 
in  the  Society  papers :  you  will  find  most  of 
his  good  qualities  there;  take  my  advice, 
don't  look  into  him  too  closely.  You  be 
content  with  Jack,  and  thank  Heaven  he  is 
no  worse.  We  are  not  saints^  we  men,  — 
none  of  us ;  and  our  beautiful  thoughts,  I 
fear,  we  write  in  poetry,  not  action.  The 
White  Knight,  my  dear  young  Lady,  with 
his  pure  soul,  his  heroic  heart,  his  life's 
devotion  to  a  noble  endeavour,  does  not  live 
down  here  to  any  great  extent.  They  have 
tried  it,  one  or  two  of  them,  and  the  world 
—  you  and  I  :  the  world  is  made  up  of  you 
?.nd  I  —  have  generally  starved,  and  hooted 
them.  There  are  not  many  of  them  left 
now :  do  you  think  you  would  care  to  be 
the  wife  of  one,  supposing  one  were  to  be 
found  for  you  ?  Would  you  care  to  live 
with  him  in  two  furnished  rooms  in  Clerken- 
well,  die  with  him  on  a  chair  bedstead  ?  A 
century  hence  they  will  put  up  a  statue  to 

him,  and  you  may  be  honoured  as  the  wife 
16 


242        On  the  Nobility 

who  shared  with  him  his  sufferings.  Do 
you  think  you  are  woman  enough  for  that  ? 
If  not,  thank  your  stars  you  have  secured, 
for  your  own  exclusive  use,  one  of  us  un- 
exceptional  men  who  knows  no  better  than 
to  admire  you.     2''ou  are  not  exceptional. 

And  in  us  ordinary  men  there  is  some 
good.  It  wants  finding,  that  is  all.  We  are 
not  so  commonplace  as  you  think  us. 
Even  your  Jack,  fond  of  his  dinner,  his 
conversation  four-cornered  by  the  Sporting 
Press  —  yes,  I  agree  he  is  not  interesting,  as 
he  sits  snoring  in  the  easy-chair  ;  but,  believe 
it  or  not,  there  are  the  makings  of  a  great 
hero  in  Jack,  if  Fate  would  but  be  kinder  to 
him  and  shake  him  out  of  his  ease. 

Dr.  Jekyll  contained  beneath  his  ample 
waistcoat  not  two  egos,  but  three  —  not  only 
Hyde  but  another,  a  greater  than  Jekyll  — 
a  man  as  near  to  the  angels  as  Hyde  was 
to  the  demons.  These  well-fed  City  men, 
these  Gaiety  Johnnies,  these  plough-boys, 
apothecaries,  thieves!  within  each  one  lies 
hidden  the  hero,  did  Fate,  the  sculptor, 
choose  to  use  his  chisel.  That  little  Drab 
we  have  noticed  now  and  then,  our  way 
taking  us   often  past  the  end  of  the  court, 


of  Ourselves  243 

there  was  nothing  by  which  to  distinguish 
her.  She  was  not  over-clean,  could  use 
coarse  language  on  occasion, — just  the 
spawn  of  the  streets ;  take  care  lest  the  cloak 
of  our  child  should  bi;ush  her. 

One  morning  the  district  Coroner,  not 
"generally  speaking,  a  poet  himself,  but  an 
adept  at  discovering  poetry,  buried  under 
unlikely  rubbish-heaps,  tells  us  more  about 
her.  She  earned  six  shillings  a  week,  and 
upon  it  supported  a  bedridden  mother  and 
three  younger  children.  She  was  housewife, 
nurse,  mother,  breadwinner,  rolled  into  one. 
Yes,  there  are  heroines  out  of  fiction. 

So  loutish  Tom  has  won  the  Victoria 
Cross,  —  dashed  out  under  a  storm  of  bullets 
and  rescued  the  riddled  fiag.  Who  would 
have  thought  it  of  loutish  Tom  ?  The  vil- 
lage ale-house  one  always  deemed  the  goal  of 
his  endeavours.  Chance  comes  to  Tom, 
and  we  find  him  out.  To  Harry  the  Fates 
were  less  kind.  A  ne'er-do-well  was  Harry, 
' —  drank,  knocked  his  wife  about,  they  say. 
Bury  him;  we  are  well  rid  of  him;  he  was 
good  for  nothing.     Are  we  sure  ? 

Let  us  acknowledge  we  are  sinners.  We 
know,  those  of  us  who  dare  to  examine  our- 


244        O^  ^^^  Nobility 

selves,  that  we  are  capable  of  every  meanness, 
of  every  wrong  under  the  sun.  It  is  by  the 
accident  of  circumstance,  aided  by  the  help- 
ful watchfulness  of  the  policeman,  that  our 
possibilities  of  crime  are  known  only  to  our- 
selves. But  having  acknowledged  our  evi', 
let  us  also  acknowledge  that  we  are  capable 
of  greatness.  The  martyrs  who  faced  death 
and  torture  unflinchingly  for  conscience'  sake 
were  men  and  women  like  ourselves.  They 
had  their  wrong  side.  Before  the  small 
trials  of  daily  life  they  no  doubt  fell  as  we 
fall.  By  no  means  were  they  the  pick  of 
humanity.  Thieves  many  of  them  had  been, 
and  murderers,  evil-livers,  and  evil-doers. 
But  the  nobility  was  there  also,  lying  dor- 
mant, and  their  day  came.  Among  them 
must  have  been  men  who  had  cheated  their 
neighbours  over  the  counter ;  men  who  had 
been  cruel  to  their  wives  and  children  ;  self- 
ish, scandal-mongering  women.  In  easier 
times  their  virtue  might  never  have  been 
known  to   any  but  their  Maker. 

In  every  age  and  in  every  period,  when 
and  where  Fate  has  called  upon  men  and 
women  to  play  the  man,  human  nature  has 
not  been  found  wanting.     They  were  a  poor 


of  Ourselves  245 

lot,  those  French  aristocrats  that  the  Terror 
seized :  cowardly,  selfish,  greedy,  had  been 
their  lives.  Yet  there  must  have  been  good 
even  in  them.  When  the  little  things  that 
in  their  little  lives  they  had  thought  so  great 
were  swept  away  from  them  ;  when  they 
found  themselves  face  to  face  with  the 
realities,  —  then  even  they  played  the  man. 
Poor  shuffling  Charles  the  First,  crusted 
over  with  weakness  and  folly,  deep  down  in 
him  at  last,  we  find  the  great  gentleman. 

I  like  to  hear  stories  of  the  littleness  of 
great  men.  I  like  to  think  that  Shakespeare 
was  fond  of  his  glass.  I  even  cling  to  the 
tale  of  that  disgraceful  final  orgy  with  friend 
Ben  Jonson.  Possibly  the  story  may  not 
be  true,  but  I  hope  it  was.  I  like  to  think 
of  him  as  poacher,  as  village  ne'er-do-well, 
denounced  by  the  local  grammar-school 
master,  preached  at  by  the  local  J.  P.  of  the 
period.  I  like  to  reflect  that  Cromwell  had 
a  wart  on  his  nose ;  the  thought  makes  me 
more  contented  with  my  own  features.  I 
like  to  think  that  he  put  sweets  upon  the 
chairs,  to  see  finely-dressed  ladies  spoil  their 
frocks ;  to  tell  myself  that  he  roared  with 
laughter  at  the  silly  jest,  like  any  East  End 


246        On  the  Nobility 

'Arry  with  his  Bank  Holiday  squirt  of  dirty 
water.  I  like  to  read  that  Carlyle  threw 
bacon  at  his  wife  and  occasionally  made 
himself  highly  ridiculous  over  small  annoy- 
ances, that  would  have  been  smiled  at  by  a 
man  of  well-balanced  mind.  I  think  of  the 
fifty  foolish  things  a  week  /  do,  and  say  to 
myself,  "  I,  too,  am  a  literary  man." 

I  like  to  think  that  even  Judas  had  his 
moments  of  nobility,  his  good  hours  when 
he  would  willingly  have  laid  down  his  life 
for  his  Master.  Perhaps  even  to  him  there 
came,  before  the  journey's  end,  the  memory 
of  a  voice  saying,  "  Thy  sins  be  forgiven 
thee."  There  must  have  been  good  even 
in  Judas. 

Virtue  lies  like  the  gold  in  quartz :  there 
is  not  very  much  of  it,  and  much  pains  has 
to  be  spent  on  the  extracting  of  it.  But 
Nature  seems  to  think  it  worth  her  while  to 
fashion  these  huge  useless  stones,  if  in  them 
she  may  hide  away  her  precious  metals. 
Perhaps,  also,  in  human  nature  she  cares 
little  for  the  mass  of  dross,  provided  that  by 
crushing  and  cleansing  she  can  extract  from 
it  a  little  gold,  sufficient  to  repay  her  for  the 
labour  of  the  world.     We  wonder  why  she 


of  Ourselves  247 

troubles  to  make  the  stone.  Why  cannot 
the  gold  lie  in  nuggets  on  the  surface  ?  But 
her  methods  are  secrets  to  us.  Perchance 
there  is  a  reason  for  the  quartz.  Perchance 
there  is  a  reason  for  the  evil  and  folly, 
through  which  run,  unseen  to  the  careless 
eye,  the  tiny  veins  of  virtue. 

Aye,  the  stone  predominates,  but  the  gold 
is  there.  We  claim  to  have  it  valued.  The 
evil  that  there  is  in  man  no  tongue  can  tell. 
We  are  vile  among  the  vile,  a  little  evil 
people.  But  we  are  great.  Pile  up  the 
bricks  of  our  sins  till  the  tower  knocks  at 
Heaven's  gate,  calling  for  vengeance,  yet  we 
are  great,  —  with  a  greatness  and  a  virtue 
that  the  untempted  angels  may  not  reach  to. 
The  written  history  of  the  human  race,  it  is 
one  long  record  of  cruelty,  of  falsehood,  of 
oppression.  Think  you  the  world  would 
be  spinning  round  the  sun  unto  this  day,  if 
that  written  record  were  all  ?  Sodom,  God 
would  have  spared  had  there  been  found 
ten  righteous  men  within  its  walls.  The 
world  is  saved  by  its  just  men.  History 
sees  them  not ;  she  is  but  the  newspaper,  a 
report  of  accidents.  Judge  you  life  by 
that  ?     Then  you  shall  believe  that  the  true 


248        On  the  Nobility 

Temple  of  Hymen  is  the  Divorce  Court; 
that  men  are  of  two  classes  only,  the  thief 
and  the  policeman;  that  all  noble  thought 
is  but  a  politician's  catchword.  History 
sees  only  the  destroying  conflagrations  ;  she 
takes  no  thought  of  the  sweet  firesides. 
History  notes  the  wrong;  but  the  patient 
suffering,  the  heroic  endeavour,  that,  slowly 
and  silently,  as  the  soft  processes  of  Nature 
reclothing  with  verdure  the  passion-wasted 
land,  obliterate  that  wrong,  she  has  no  eyes 
for.     In  the  days  of  cruelty  and  oppression 

—  not  altogether  yet  of  the  past,  one  fears 

—  must  have  lived  gentle-hearted  men  and 
women,  healing  with  their  help  and  sym- 
pathy the  wounds  that  else  the  world  had 
died  of.  After  the  thief,  riding  with  jingle 
of  sword  and  spur,  comes,  mounted  on  his 
ass,  the  good  Samaritan.  The  pyramid  of 
the  world's  evil  —  God  help  us  !  it  rises 
high,  shutting  out  almost  the  sun.  But  the 
record  of  man's  good  deeds,  it  lies  written  in 
the  laughter  of  the  children,  in  the  light  of 
lovers'  eyes,  in  the  dreams  of  the  young 
men ;  it  shall  not  be  forgotten.  The  fires 
of  persecution  served  as  torches  to  show 
Heaven   the    heroism    that   was    in    man. 


of  Ourselves  249 

From  the  soil  of  tyranny  sprang  self-sacri- 
fice and  daring  for  the  Right.  Cruelty ! 
what  is  it  but  the  vile  manure,  making  the 
ground  ready  for  the  flowers  of  tenderness 
and  pity  ?  Hate  and  Anger  shriek  to  one 
another  across  the  ages,  but  the  voices  of 
Love  and  Comfort  are  none  the  less  existent 
that  they  speak  in  whispers,  lips  to  ear. 

We  have  done  wrong,  oh,  ye  witnessing 
Heavens,  but  we  have  done  good.  We 
claim  justice.  We  have  laid  down  our  lives 
for  our  friends  :  greater  love  hath  no  man 
than  this.  We  have  fought  for  the  Right. 
We  have  died  for  the  Truth — as  the  Truth 
seemed  to  us.  We  have  done  noble  deeds ; 
we  have  lived  noble  lives ;  we  have  com- 
forted the  sorrowful ;  we  have  succoured 
the  weak.  Failing,  falling,  making  in  our 
blindness  many  a  false  step,  yet  we  have 
striven.  For  the  sake  of  the  army  of  just 
men  and  true,  for  the  sake  of  the  myriads 
of  patient,  loving  women,  for  the  sake  of  the 
pitiful  and  helpful,  for  the  sake  of  the  good 
that  lies  hidden  within  us,  —  spare  us. 
Lord! 


ON   THE    MOTHERLINESS 

OF  MAN 


IT  was  only  a  piece  of  broken  glass. 
From  its  shape  and  colour,  I  should 
say  it  had,  in  its  happier  days,  formed  por- 
tion of  a  cheap  scent-bottle.  Lying  isolated 
on  the  grass,  shone  upon  by  the  early 
morning  sun,  it  certainly  appeared  at  its 
best.     It  attracted  him. 

He  cocked  his  head,  and  looked  at  it  with 
his  right  eye.  Then  he  hopped  round  to 
the  other  side,  and  looked  at  it  with  his  left 
eye.  With  either  optic  it  seemed  equally 
desirable. 

That  he  was  an  inexperienced  young 
rook  goes  without  saying.  An  older  bird 
would  not  have  given  a  second  glance  to  the 
thing.  Indeed,  one  would  have  thought 
his  own  instinct  might  have  told  him  that 
broken  glass  would  be  a  mistake  in  a  bird's 


Motherliness  of  Man     251 

nest.  But  its  glitter  drew  him  too  strongly 
for  resistance.  I  am  inclined  to  suspect  that 
at  some  time,  during  the  growth  of  his 
family  tree,  there  must  have  occurred  a 
mesalliance  J  perhaps  worse.  Possibly  a 
strain  of  magpie  blood  ?  —  one  knows  the 
character  of  magpies,  or  rather  their  lack  of 
character  —  and  such  things  have  happened. 
But  I  will  not  pursue  further  so  painful  a 
train :  I  throw  out  the  suggestion  as  a 
possible  explanation,  that  is  all. 

He  hopped  nearer.  Was  it  a  sweet 
illusion,  this  flashing  fragment  of  rainbow  ; 
a  beautiful  vision  to  fade  upon  approach, 
typical  of  so  much  that  is  un-understandable 
in  rook  life  ?  He  made  a  dart  forward  and 
tapped  it  with  his  beak.  No,  it  was  real,  — 
as  fine  a  lump  of  jagged  green  glass  as  any 
newly-married  rook  could  desire,  and  to  be 
had  for  the  taking.  She  would  be  pleased 
with  it.  He  was  a  well-meaning  bird  ;  the 
mere  upward  inclination  of  his  tail  sug- 
gested earnest  though  possibly  ill-directed 
endeavour. 

He  turned  it  over.  It  was  an  awkward 
thing  to  carry ;  it  had  so  very  many  corners. 
But  he  succeeded  at  last  in  getting  it  firmly 


252      On  the  Motherliness 

between  his  beak,  and  in  haste,  lest  some 
other  bird  should  seek  to  dispute  with  him 
its  possession,  at  once  flew  off  with  it. 

A  second  rook,  who  had  been  watching 
the  proceedings  from  the  lime-tree,  called  to 
a  third  who  was  passing.  Even  with  my 
limited  knowledge  of  the  language  I  found 
it  easy  to  follow  the  conversation  ;  it  was  so 
obvious. 

"  Issachar ! " 

"  Hallo ! " 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  Zebulun  's  found 
a  piece  of  broken  bottle.  He 's  going  to 
line  his  nest  with  it." 

"  No !  " 

"  God's  truth.  Look  at  him.  There  he 
goes  ;  he 's  got  it  in  his  beak." 

"Well,  I'm  —  !" 

And  they  both  burst  into  a  laugh. 

But  Zebulun  heeded  them  not.  If  he 
overheard,  he  probably  put  down  the  whole 
dialogue  to  jealousy.  He  made  straight  for 
his  tree.  By  standing  with  my  left  check 
pressed  close  against  the  window-pane,  I  was 
able  to  follow  him.  He  is  building  in  what 
we  call  the  Paddock  elms,  —  a  suburb  com- 
menced only  last  season,  but  rapidly  grow- 


of  Man  253 

ing.  I  wanted  to  see  what  his  wife  would 
say. 

At  first  she  said  nothing.  He  laid  it 
carefully  down  on  the  branch  near  the  half- 
finished  nest,  and  she  stretched  up  her  head 
and  looked  at  it. 

Then  she  looked  at  him.  For  atout  a 
minute  neither  spoke.  I  could  see  that  the 
situation  was  becoming  strained.  When  she 
did  open  her  beak,  it  was  with  a  subdued 
tone,  that  had  a  vein  of  weariness  running 
through  it. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  was  evidently  chilled  by  her  manner. 
As  I  have  explained,  he  is  an  inexperienced 
young  rook.  This  is  clearly  his  first  wife, 
and  he  stands  somewhat  in  awe  of  her. 

"  Well,  I  don't  exactly  know  what  it 's 
called^'  he  answered. 

"Oh!" 

"  No.  But  it  *s  pretty,  is  n't  it  ?  "  he 
added.  He  moved  it,  trying  to  get  it  where 
the  sun  might  reach  it.  It  was  evident  he 
was  admitting  to  himself  that,  seen  in  the 
shade,  it  lost  much  of  its  charm. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  very  pretty,"  was  the  rejoinder ; 
"  perhaps  you  'U  tell  me  what  you  're  going 
to  do  with  it." 


2  54      O^  ^^^  Motherliness 

The  question  further  discomforted  him. 
It  was  growing  upon  him  that  this  thing 
was  not  going  to  be  the  success  he  had  anti- 
cipated. It  would  be  necessary  to  proceed 
warily. 

"  Of  course  it 's  not  a  twig,"  he  began. 

"  I  see  it  is  n't." 

"  No.  You  see,  the  nest  is  nearly  all 
twigs  as  it  is,  and  I   thought  — " 

"  Oh,  you  did  think." 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  I  thought  —  unless  you 
are  of  opinion  that  it 's  too  showy  —  I 
thought  we  might  work  it  in  somewhere." 

Then  she  flared  out. 

"  Oh,  did  you  r  You  thought  that  a 
good  idea.  An  A  i  prize  idiot  I  seem  to 
have  married,  I  do.  You  've  been  gone 
twenty  minutes,  and  you  bring  me  back  an 
eight-cornered  piece  of  broken  glass,  which 
you  think  we  might  '  work  into  '  the  nest. 
You  'd  like  to  see  me  sitting  on  it  for  a 
month,  you  would.  You  think  it  would 
make  a  nice  bed  for  the  children  to  lie  on. 
You  don't  think  you  could  manage  to  find  a 
packet  of  mixed  pins  if  you  went  down  again, 
I  suppose  ?  They  'd  look  pretty  '  worked 
in  '  somewhere,  don't  you  think  ,?  —  Here, 


of  Man  255 

get  out  of  my  way.  I  '11  finish  this  nest  by 
myself."  She  always  had  been  short  with 
him. 

She  caught  up  the  offending  object  —  it 
was  a  fairly  heavy  lump  of  glass  —  and 
flung  it  out  of  the  tree  with  all  her  force.  I 
heard  it  crash  through  the  cucumber  frame. 
That  makes  the  seventh  pane  of  glass 
broken  in  that  cucumber  frame  this  week. 
The  couple  in  the  branch  above  are  the 
worstv  Their  plan  of  building  is  the  most 
extravagant,  the  most  absurd,  I  ever  heard 
of  They  hoist  up  ten  times  as  much  ma- 
terial as  they  can  possibly  use ;  you  might 
think  they  were  going  to  build  a  block  and 
let  it  out  in  flats  to  the  other  rooks.  Then 
what  they  don't  want  they  fling  down  again. 
Suppose  we  built  on  such  a  principle.  Sup- 
pose a  human  husband  and  wife  were  to  start 
erecting  their  house  in  Piccadilly  Circus,  let 
us  say  ;  and  suppose  the  man  spent  all  the 
day  steadily  carrying  bricks  up  the  ladder 
while  his  wife  laid  them,  never  asking  her 
how  many  she  wanted,  whether  she  did  n't 
think  he  had  brought  up  sufficient,  but  just 
accumulating  bricks  in  a  senseless  fashion, 
bringing    up   every    brick    he     could    find. 


256      On  the  Motherliness 

And  then  suppose,  when  evening  came,  and 
looking  round  they  found  they  had  some 
twenty  cart-loads  of  bricks  lying  unused 
upon  the  scaffold,  they  were  to  begin 
flinging  them  down  into  Waterloo  Place. 
They  would  get  themselves  into  trouble ; 
somebody  would  be  sure  to  speak  to  them 
about  it.  Yet  that  is  precisely  what  those 
birds  do,  and  nobody  says  a  word  to  them. 
They  are  supposed  to  have  a  President. 
He  lives  by  himself  in  the  yew-tree  outside 
the  morning-room  window.  What  I  want 
to  know  is  what  he  is  supposed  to  be  good 
for.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  I  want  him 
to  look  into.  I  would  like  him  to  be  worm- 
ing underneath  one  evening  when  those  two 
birds  are  tidying  up  ;  perhaps  he  would  do 
something  then.  I  have  done  all  I  can.  I 
have  thrown  stones  at  them  that,  in  the 
course  of  nature,  have  returned  to  earth 
again,  breaking  more  glass.  I  have  blazed 
at  them  with  a  revolver ;  but  they  have  come 
to  regard  this  proceeding  as  a  mere  expression 
of  lightheartedness  on  my  part,  possibly 
confusing  me  with  the  Arab  of  the  Desert, 
who,  I  am  given  to  understand,  expresses 
himself  thus  in  moments  of  deep   emotion. 


of  Man  257 

They  merely  retire  to  a  safe  distance  to 
watch  me,  no  doubt  regarding  me  as  a  poor 
performer,  inasmuch  as  I  do  not  also  dance 
and  shout  between  each  shot.  I  have  no 
objection  to  their  building  there,  if  they  only 
would  build  sensibly.  I  want  somebody 
to  speak  to  them  to  whom  they  will  pay 
attention. 

You  can  hear  them  in  the  evening,  dis- 
cussing the  matter  of  this  surplus  stock. 

"  Don't  you  work  any  more,"  he  says,  as 
he  comes  up  with  the  last  load ;  "  you  '11  tire 
yourself" 

"  Well,  I  am  feeling  a  bit  done  up,"  she 
answers,  as  she  hops  out  of  the  nest  and 
straightens  her  back. 

"  You  're  a  bit  peckish,  too,  I  expect,"  he 
adds  sympathetically.  "  I  know  I  am.  We 
will  have  a  scratch  down,  and  be  off." 

"What  about  all  this  stuff?"  she  asks, 
while  titivating  herself;  "we'd  better  not 
leave  it  about,  it  looks  so  untidy." 

"  Oh,  we  '11  soon  get  rid  of  that,"  he  an 
swers.     "  I  '11  have  that  down  in  a  jiffy." 

To   help   him,  she  seizes  a  stick  and  is 
about  to   drop    it.     He  darts    forward  and 
snatches  it  from  her. 
17 


258      On  the  Motherliness 

"  Don't  you  waste  that  one,"  he  cries ; 
'*  that 's  a  rare  one,  that  is.  You  see  me  hit 
the  oIJ  man  with  it." 

And  he  does.  What  the  gardener  says,  I 
will  leave  you  to  imagine. 

Judged  from  its  structure,  the  rook  family 
is  supposed  to  come  next  in  intelligence  to 
man  himself  Judging  from  the  intelligence 
displayed  by  members  of  certain  human 
families  with  whom  I  have  come  in  contact, 
I  can  quite  believe  it.  That  rooks  talk  I 
am  positive.  No  one  can  spend  half-an- 
hour  watching  a  rookery  without  being  con- 
vinced of  this.  Whether  the  talk  be  always 
wise  and  witty,  I  am  not  prepared  to  main- 
tain ;  but  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of  it  is 
certain.  A  young  French  gentleman  of  my 
acquaintance,  who  visited  England  to  study 
the  language,  told  me  that  the  impression 
made  upon  him  by  his  first  social  evening 
in  London  was  that  of  a  parrot-house. 
Later  on,  when  he  came  to  comprehend,  he, 
of  course,  recognised  the  brilliancy  and  depth 
of  the  average  London  drawing-room  talk  ; 
but  that  is  how,  not  comprehending,  it  im- 
pressed him  at  first.  Listening  to  the  riot 
of  a  rookery  is  much  the  same  experience. 


of  Man  259 

The  conversation  to  us  sounds  meaningless ; 
the  rooks  themselves  would  probably  describe 
it  as  sparkling. 

There  is  a  Misanthrope  I  know  who 
hardly  ever  goes  into  Society.  I  argued  the 
question  with  him  one  day.  *'  Why  should 
I  ?  "  he  replied ;  "  I  know,  say  a  dozen  men 
and  women,  with  whom  intercourse  is  a  pleas- 
ure ;  they  have  ideas  of  their  own  which 
they  are  not  afraid  to  voice.  To  rub  brains 
with  such  is  a  rare  and  goodly  thing,  and  I 
thank  Heaven  for  their  friendship ;  but  they 
are  sufficient  for  my  leisure.  What  more  do 
I  require  }  What  is  this  '  Society '  of  which 
you  all  make  so  much  ado  :  I  have  sampled 
it,  and  I  find  it  unsatisfying.  Analyse  it 
into  its  elements,  what  is  it  ?  Some  person 
I  know  very  slightly,  who  knows  me  very 
slightly,  asks  me  to  what  you  call  an  ^At 
Home.'  The  evening  comes  ;  I  have  done 
my  day's  work  and  I  have  dined.  I  have 
been  to  a  theatre  or  concert,  or  I  have  spent 
a  pleasant  hour  or  so  with  a  friend.  I  am 
more  inclined  for  bed  than  anything  else, 
but  I  pull  myself  together,  dress,  and  drive 
to  the  house.  While  I  am  taking  off  my 
hat  and  coat  in  the  hall,  a  man  enters  I  met 


2  6o      On  the  Motherliness 

a  few  hours  ago  at  the  Club.  He  is  a  man 
I  have  very  little  opinion  of,  and  he,  prob- 
ably, takes  a  similar  view  of  me.  Our  minds 
have  no  thought  in  commion,  but  as  it  is 
necessary  to  talk,  I  tell  him  it  is  a  warn? 
evening.  Perhaps  it  is  a  warm  evenings 
perhaps  it  is  n't ;  in  either  case  he  agree? 
with  me. ,  I  ask  him  if  he  is  going  to 
Ascot.  I  do  not  care  a  straw  whether  he  is 
going  to  Ascot  or  not.  He  says  he  is  not 
quite  sure,  but  asks  me  what  chance  Passion- 
Flower  has  for  the  Thousand  Guineas.  I 
know  he  does  n't  value  my  opinion  on  the 
subject  at  a  brass  farthing  —  he  would  be  a 
fool  if  he  did ;  but  I  cudgel  my  brains  to 
reply  to  him,  as  though  he  were  going  to 
stake  his  shirt  on  my  advice.  We  reach 
the  first  floor,  and  are  mutually  glad  to  get 
rid  of  one  another.  I  catch  my  hostess'  eye. 
She  looks  tired  and  worried  ;  she  would  be 
happier  in  bed,  only  she  does  n't  know  it. 
She  smiles  sweetly,  but  it  is  clear  she  has  not 
the  slightest  idea  who  I  am,  and  is  waiting 
to  catch  my  name  from  the  butler.  I  whis- 
per it  to  him.  Perhaps  he  will  get  it  right, 
perhaps  he  won't ;  it  is  quite  immaterial. 
They   have  asked   two   hundred   and    forty 


of  Man  261 

guests,  some  seventy-five  of  whom  they 
know  by  sight ;  for  the  rest,  any  chance 
passer-by,  able,  as  the  theatrical  advertise- 
ments  say,  *  to  dress  and  behave  as  a  gentle- 
man,* would  do  every  bit  as  well.  Indeed, 
I  sometimes  wonder  why  people  go  to  the 
trouble  and  expense  of  invitation  cards  at  all. 
A  sandwich-man  outside  the  door  would 
answer  the  purpose.  '  Lady  Tompkins,  At 
Home  this  afternoon  from  three  to  seven ; 
Tea  and  Music.  Ladies  and  Gentlemen 
admitted  on  presentation  of  visiting  card. 
Afternoon  dress  indispensable.'  The  crowd 
is  the  thing  wanted  ;  as  for  the  items,  well, 
tell  me,  what  is  the  difference,  from  the 
Society  point  of  view,  between  one  man  in  a 
black  frock-coat  and  another  ? 

"  I  remember  being  once  invited  to  a  party 
at  a  house  in  Lancaster  Gate.  I  had  met 
the  woman  at  a  picnic.  In  the  same  green 
frock  and  parasol  I  might  have  recognised 
her  the  next  time  I  saw  her.  In  any  other 
clothes  I  did  not  expect  to.  My  cabman 
took  me  to  the  house  opposite,  where  they 
were  also  giving  a  party.  It  made  no  differ- 
ence to  any  of  us.  The  hostess  —  I  never 
learnt  her  name  —  said  it  was  very  good  of 


262      On  the  Motherliness 

me  to  come,  and  then  shunted  me  off  on  to  a 
Colonial  Premier.  I  did  not  catch  his  name, 
and  he  did  not  catch  mine,  which  was  not 
extraordinary,  seeing  that  my  hostess  did  not 
know  it,  who,  she  whispered  to  me,  had 
come  over  from  wherever  it  was,  she  did  not 
seem  to  be  very  sure,  principally  to  make 
my  acquaintance.  Half  through  the  even- 
ing, and  by  accident,  I  discovered  my  mis- 
take, but  judged  it  too  late  to  say  anything 
then.  I  met  a  couple  of  people  I  knew, 
had  a  little  supper  with  them,  and  came 
away.  The  next  afternoon  I  met  my  right 
hostess, —  the  lady  who  should  have  been 
my  hostess.  She  thanked  me  effusively  for 
having  sacrificed  the  previous  evening  to  her 
and  her  friends ;  she  said  she  knew  how 
seldom  I  went  out:  that  made  her  feel  my 
kindness  all  the  more.  She  told  me  that 
the  Brazilian  Minister's  wife  had  told  her 
that  I  was  the  cleverest  man  she  had  ever 
met.  I  often  think  I  should  like  to  meet 
that  man,  whoever  he  may  be,  and  thank 
him. 

"  But  perhaps  the  butler  does  pronounce 
my  name  rightly,  and  perhaps  my  hostess 
actually  does  recognise  me.     She  smiles,  and 


of  Man  263 

says  she  was  so  afraid  I  was  not  coming. 
She  implies  that  all  the  other  guests  are  but 
as  a  feather  in  her  scales  of  joy  compared 
with  myself,  I  smile  in  return,  wondering 
to  myself  how  I  look  when  I  do  smile.  I 
have  never  had  the  courage  to  face  my  own 
smile  in  the  looking-glass.  I  notice  the 
Society  smile  of  other  men,  and  it  is  not  re- 
assuring. I  murmur  something  about  my 
not  having  been  likely  to  forget  this  even- 
ing, in  my  turn,  seeking  to  imply  that  I 
have  been  looking  forward  to  it  for  weeks. 
A  few  men  shine  at  this  sort  of  thing,  but 
they  are  a  small  percentage,  and  without 
conceit  I  regard  myself  as  no  bigger  a  fool 
than  the  average  male.  Not  knowing  what 
else  to  say,  I  tell  her  also  that  it  is  a  warm 
evening.  She  smiles  archly  as  though  there 
were  some  hidden  witticism  in  the  remark, 
and  I  drift  away,  feeling  ashamed  of  myself. 
To  talk  as  an  idiot  when  you  are  an  idiot, 
brings  no  discomfort ;  to  behave  as  an  idiot 
when  you  have  sufficient  sense  to  know  It, 
is  painful.  I  hide  myself  in  the  crowd,  and 
perhaps  I  '11  meet  a  woman  I  was  Introduced 
to  three  weeks  ago  at  a  picture  gallery.  We 
don't  know  each  other's  names,  but,  both  of 


264     On  the  Motherliness 

us  feeling  lonesome,  we  converse,  as  it  is 
called.  If  she  be  the  ordinary  type  of 
woman,  she  asks  me  if  I  am  going  on  to  the 
Johnsons'.  I  tell  her  no.  We  stand  silent 
for  a  moment,  both  thinking  what  next  to 
say.  She  asks  me  if  I  was  at  the  Thompsons' 
the  day  before  yesterday.  I  again  tell  her 
no.  I  begin  to  feel  dissatisfied  with  myself 
that  I  was  not  at  the  Thompsons'.  Trying 
to  get  even  with  her,  I  ask  her  if  she  is  going 
to  the  Browns'  next  Monday.  (There  are 
no  Browns  ;  she  will  have  to  say.  No.)  She 
is  not,  and  her  tone  suggests  that  a  social 
stigma  rests  upon  the  Browns.  I  ask  her  if 
she  has  been  to  Barnum's  Circus;  she  has  n't, 
but  is  going.  I  give  her  my  impressions  of 
Barnum's  Circus,  which  are  precisely  the 
impressions  of  everybody  else  who  has  seen 
the  show. 

"  Or  if  luck  be  against  me,  she  is  possibly 
a  smart  woman ;  that  is  to  say,  her  conversa- 
tion is  a  running  fire  of  spiteful  remarks 
at  the  expense  of  every  one  she  knows,  and 
of  sneers  at  the  expense  of  every  one  she 
does  n't.  I  always  feel  I  could  make  a  bet- 
ter woman  myself,  out  of  a  bottle  of  vine- 
gar and  a  penn'orth  of  mixed  pins.     Yet  it 


of  Man  265 

usually  takes  one  about  ten  minutes  to  get 
ijway  from  her. 

"  Even  when,  by  chance,  one  meets  a 
flesh-and-blood  man  or  woman  at  such  gath- 
erings, it  is  not  the  time  nor  place  for  real 
conversation  ;  and  as  for  the  shadows,  what 
person  in  their  senses  would  exhaust  a  single 
brain  cell  upon  such  ?  I  remember  a  discus- 
sion once  concerning  Tennyson,  considered 
as  a  social  item.  The  dullest  and  most 
densely-stupid  bore  I  ever  came  across  was 
telling  how  he  had  sat  next  to  Tennyson  at 
dinner.  '  I  found  him  a  most  uninteresting 
man,'  so  he  confided  to  us  ;  *  he  had  noth- 
ing to  say  for  himself — absolutely  nothing.' 
I  should  like  to  resuscitate  Dr.  Samuel 
Johnson  for  an  evening,  and  throw  him  into 
one  of  these  'At  Homes  '  of  yours." 

My  friend  is  an  admitted  misanthrope,  as 
I  have  explained  ;  but  one  cannot  dismiss 
him  as  altogether  unjust.  That  there  is  a 
certain  mystery  about  Society's  craving  for 
Society  must  be  admitted.  I  stood  one 
evening  trying  to  force  my  way  into  the 
supper-room  of  a  house  in  Berkeley  Square. 
A  lady,  hot  and  weary,  a  few  yards  in  front 
of  me,  was  struggling  to  the  same  goal. 


266     On  the  Motherliness 

"  Why,"  remarked  she  to  her  companion, 
"  why  do  we  come  to  these  places,  and  fight 
like  a  Bank  Holiday  crowd  for  eighteen- 
pennyworth  of  food  ?  " 

"  We  come  here,"  replied  the  man,  whom 
I  judged  to  be  a  philosopher,  "  to  say  we  Ve 
been  here." 

I  met  A the  other  evening,  and  asked 

him  to  dine  with  me  on  Monday.      I  don't 

know  why   I   ask  A to  dine  with   me, 

but  about  once  a  month  I  do.  He  is  an 
uninteresting  man. 

"  I  can't,"  he  said  ;  "  I  've  got  to  go  to  the 

B s'.     Confounded  nuisance  ;  it  will  be 

infernally  dull." 

"  Why  go .?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  he  replied. 

A  little  later  B met  me,  and  asked  me 

to  dine  with  him  on  Monday. 

"  I  can't,"  I  answered ;  "  some  friends  are 
coming  to  us  that  evening.  It's  a  duty 
dinner  ;  you  know  the  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  managed  it,"  he 
said ;  *'  I  shall  have  no  one  to  talk  to.     The 

A s  are  coming,  and  they  bore  me  to 

death." 

"  Why  do  you  ask  them  ?  "  I  suggested. 


of  Man  267 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  really  don't  know,** 
he  replied. 

But  to  return  to  our  rooks.  We  were 
speaking  of  their  social  instincts.  Some 
dozen  of  them — the  "  scallawags  "  and 
bachelors  of  the  community,  I  judge  them 
to  be — -have  started  a  Club.  For  a  month 
past  I  have  been  trying  to  understand  what 
the  affair  was.     Now  I  know  :  it  is  a  Club. 

And  for  their  Club  House  they  have 
chosen,  of  course,  the  tree  nearest  my  bed- 
room window.  I  can  guess  how  that  came 
about ;  it  was  my  own  fault,  I  never  thought 
of  it.  About  two  months  ago,  a  single  rook 
—  suffering  from  indigestion  or  an  unhappy 
marriage,  I  know  not  —  chose  this  tree  one 
night  for  purposes  of  reflection.  He  woke 
me  up ;  I  felt  angry.  I  opened  the  window 
and  threw  an  empty  soda-water  bottle  at 
him.  Of  course  it  did  not  hit  him,  and, 
finding  nothing  else  to  throw,  I  shouted  at 
him,  thinking  to  frighten  him  away.  He 
took  no  notice,  but  went  on  talking  to  him- 
self. I  shouted  louder,  and  woke  up  mv 
own  dog.  The  dog  barked  furiously,  and 
woke  up  most  things  within  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.     I  had  to  go  down  with  a  boot-jack 


2  68      On  the  Motherliness 

—  the  only  thing  I  could  find  handy  —  to 
soothe  the  dog.  Two  hours  later  I  fell 
asleep  from  exhaustion.  I  left  the  rook 
still  cawing. 

The  next  night  he  came  again.  I  should 
say  he  was  a  bird  with  a  sense  of  humour. 
Thinking  this  might  happen,  I  had,  how- 
ever, taken  the  precaution  to  have  a  few 
stones  ready.  I  opened  the  window  wide 
and  fired  them  one  after  another  into  the 
tree.  After  I  had  closed  the  window,  he 
hopped  down  nearer  and  cawed  louder  than 
ever.  I  think  he  wanted  me  to  throw  more 
stones  at  him  ;  he  appeared  to  regard  the 
whole  proceeding  as  a  game.  On  the  third 
night,  as  I  heard  nothing  of  him,  I  flattered 
myself  that,  in  spite  of  his  bravado,  I  had 
discouraged  him.  I  might  have  known 
rooks  better. 

What  happened  when  the  Club  was  being 
formed,  I  take  it,  was  this  :  — 

"  Where  shall  we  fix  upon  for  our  Club 
House  ?  "  said  the  Secretary,  all  other  points 
having  been  disposed  of  One  suggested 
this  tree  ;  another  suggested  that.  Then  up 
spoke  this  particular  rook  :  — 

"  I  '11  tell  you  where,"  said  he :  "  In  the 


of  Man  269 

yew-tree  opposite  the  porch.  And  1  'II  tell  you 
for  why.  Just  about  an  hour  before  dawn 
a  man  comes  to  the  window  over  the  porch, 
dressed  in  the  most  comical  costume  you 
ever  set  eyes  upon.  I  '11  tell  you  what  he 
reminds  me  of,  —  those  little  statues  that 
men  use  for  decorating  fields.  He  opens 
the  window,  and  throws  a  lot  of  things  out 
upon  the  lawn,  and  then  he  dances  and  sings. 
It 's  awfully  interesting,  and  you  can  see  it 
all  from  the  yew-tree." 

That,  I  am  convinced,  is  how  the  Club 
came  to  fix  upon  the  tree  next  my  window. 
I  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  denying  them 
the  exhibition  they  anticipated,  and  I  cheer 
myself  with  the  hope  that  they  have  visited 
their  disappointment  upon  their   misleader. 

There  is  a  difference  between  Rook  Clubs 
and  ours.  In  our  clubs  the  respectable 
members  arrive  early,  and  leave  at  a  reason- 
able hour  ;  in  Rook  Clubs,  it  would  appear, 
this  principle  is  reversed.  The  Mad  Hatter 
would  have  liked  this  Club  ;  it  would  have 
been  a  club  after  his  own  heart.  It  opens  at 
half-past  two  in  the  morning,  and  the  first  to 
arrive  are  the  most  disreputable  members. 
In    Rook-land    the    rowdy-dowdy,    ranay- 


270     On  the  Motherllness 

dandy,  rolHcky-ranky  boys  get  up  very  early 
in  the  morning  and  go  to  bed  in  the  after- 
noon. Towards  dawn,  the  older,  more 
orderly  members  drop  in  for  reasonable 
talk,  and  the  Club  becomes  more  respectable. 
The  tree  closes  about  six.  For  the  first  two 
hours,  however,  the  goings  on  are  disgrace- 
ful. The  proceedings,  as  often  as  not,  open 
with  a  fight.  If  no  two  gentlemen  can  be 
found  to  oblige  with  a  fight,  the  next  noisiest 
thing  to  fall  back  upon  is  held  to  be  a  song. 
It  is  no  satisfaction  to  me  to  be  told  that 
rooks  cannot  sing.  /  know  that,  without 
the  trouble  of  referring  to  the  natural  history 
book.  It  is  the  rook  who  does  not  know 
it ;  he  thinks  he  can  ;  and  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  does.  You  can  criticise  his  singing ; 
you  can  call  it  what  you  like,  but  you  can't 
stop  it,  —  at  least,  that  is  my  experience. 
The  song  selected  is  sure  to  be  one  with  a 
chorus.  Towards  the  end  it  becomes  m^ainly 
chorus,  unless  the  soloist  be  an  extra  power- 
ful bird,  determined  to  insist  upon  his  rights. 
The  President  knows  nothing  of  this  Club. 
He  gets  up  himself  about  seven  —  three 
hours  after  all  the  others  have  finished  break- 
fast —  and  then  fusses  round  under  the  im- 


of  Man  271 

pression  that  he  is  waking  up  the  colony, 
the  fat-headed  old  fool.  He  is  the  poorest 
thing  in  Presidents  I  have  ever  heard  of  A 
South  American  Republic  would  supply  a 
better  article.  The  rooks  themselves,  the 
married  majority,  fathers  of  families,  respect- 
able nest-holders,  are  as  indignant  as  I  am. 
I   hear  complaints  from  all  quarters. 

Reflection  comes  to  one  as,  towards  the 
close  of  these  chill  afternoons  in  early  spring, 
one  leans  upon  the  paddock  gate  watching 
the  noisy  bustling  in  the  bare  elms. 

So  the  earth  is  growing  green  again,  and 
love  is  come  again  unto  the  hearts  of  us  old 
sober-coated  fellows.  Oh,  Madam,  your 
feathers  gleam  wondrous  black,  and  your 
bonnie  bright  eye  stabs  deep.  Come,  sit  by 
our  side,  and  we  '11  tell  you  a  tale  such  as 
rook  never  told  before.  It's  the  tale  of  a 
nest  in  a  topmost  bough,  that  sways  in  the 
good  west  wind.  It's  strong  without,  but 
it 's  soft  within,  where  the  little  green  eggs 
lie  safe.  And  there  sits  in  that  nest  a  lady 
sweet,  and  she  caws  with  joy,  for  afar  she 
sees  the  rook  she  loves  the  best.  Oh,  he 
has  been  east,  and  he  has  been  west,  and  his 
crop  it  is  full  of  worms  and  slugs,  and  they 
are  all  for  her. 


272      On  the  Motherllness 

We  are  old,  old  rooks,  so  many  of  us. 
The  white  is  mingling  with  the  purple  black 
upon  our  breasts.  We  have  seen  these  tall 
elms  grow  from  saplings  ;  we  have  seen  the 
old  trees  fall  and  die.  Yet  each  season  come 
to  us  again  the  young  thoughts.  So  we  mate 
and  build  and  gather,  that  again  our  old,  old 
hearts  may  quiver  to  the  thin  cry  of  our 
newborn. 

Mother  Nature  has  but  one  care,  the  chil- 
dren. We  talk  of  Love  as  the  Lord  of  Life  ; 
it  is  but  the  Minister.  Our  novels  end  where 
Nature's  tale  begins.  The  drama  that  our 
curtain  falls  upon  is  but  the  prologue  to  her 
play.  How  the  ancient  Dame  must  laugh 
as  she  listens  to  the  prattle  of  her  children: 
"  Is  Marriage  a  Failure  ?  "  "  Is  Life  worth 
Living  ?  "  "  The  New  Woman  versus  the 
Old."  So,  perhaps,  the  waves  of  the  Atlan- 
tic discuss  vehemently  whether  they  shall 
flow  east  or  west. 

Motherhood  is  the  law  of  the  universe. 
The  whole  duty  of  man  is  to  be  a  mother. 
We  labour  ;  to  what  end  ?  The  children,  — 
the  woman  in  the  home,  the  man  in  the 
community.  The  nation  takes  thought  for 
its  future ;  why  ?     In  a  few  years  its  states- 


of  Man  273 

men,  its  so/diers,  its  merchants,  its  toilers, 
will  be  gathered  unto  their  fathers.  Why- 
trouble  we  ourselves  about  the  future  ?  The 
country  pours  its  blood  and  treasure  into  the 
earth  that  the  children  may  reap.  Foolish 
Jacques  Bonhomie,  his  addled  brain  full  of 
the  maddest  dreams,  rushes  with  bloody  hands 
to  give  his  blood  for  Liberty,  Equality,  Fra- 
ternity. He  will  not  live  to  see,  except  in 
vision,  the  new  world  he  gives  his  bones  to 
build  —  even  his  spinning  word-whipped 
head  knows  that.  But  the  children  !  they 
shall  live  sweeter  lives.  The  peasant  leaves 
his  fireside  to  die  upon  the  battlefield. 
What  is  it  to  him,  a  grain  in  the  human 
sand,  that  Russia  should  conquer  the  East, 
that  Germany  should  be  united,  that  the 
English  flag  should  wave  above  new  lands  ? 
the  heritage  his  fathers  left  him  shall  be 
greater  for  his  sons.  Patriotism  !  what  is  it, 
but  the  mother  instinct  of  a  people  ? 

Take  it  that  the  decree  has  gone  forth 
from  Heaven,  There  shall  be  no  more  gene- 
rations ;  with  this  life  the  world  shall  die. 
Think  you  we  should  move  another  hand  ? 
The  ships  would  rot  in  the  harbours;  the  grain 
would  rot  in  the  ground.  Should  we  paint 
18 


2  74     ^^  ^^^  Motherliness 

pictures,  write  books,  make  music  ?  hemmed 
in  by  that  onward  creeping  sea  of  silence. 
Think  you  with  what  eyes  husband  and  wife 
would  look  on  one  another  ?  Think  you  of 
the  wooing,  —  the  spring  of  Love  dried  up  ; 
love  only  a  pool  of  stagnant  water. 

How  little  we  seem  to  realise  this  founda- 
tion of  our  Hfe  !  Herein,  if  nowhere  else, 
lies  our  eternity.  This  Ego  shall  never  die, 
—  unless  the  human  race  from  beginning  to 
end  be  but  a  passing  jest  of  the  Gods,  to  be 
swept  aside  when  wearied  of,  leaving  room 
for  new  experiments.  These  features  of 
mine  —  we  will  not  discuss  their  aesthetic 
value  —  shall  never  disappear  ;  modified, 
varied,  but  in  essential  the  same,  they  shall 
continue  in  ever-increasing  circles  to  the  end 
of  Time.  This  temperament  of  mine  —  this 
good  and  evil  that  is  in  me —  it  shall  grow 
with  every  age,  spreading  ever  wider,  com- 
bining, amalgamating.  I  go  into  my  children 
and  my  children's  children  ;  I  am  eternal. 
I  am  they ;  they  are  I.  The  tree  withers, 
and  you  clear  the  ground,  thankful  if  out  of 
its  dead  limbs  you  can  make  good  firewood  ; 
but  its  spirit,  its  life,  is  in  fifty  saplings. 
The  tree  never  dies  ;  it  changes. 


of  Man  275 

These  men  and  women  that  pass  me  in 
the  street,  this  one  hurrying  to  his  office, 
this  one  to  his  club,  another  to  his  love,  they 
are  the  mothers  of  the  world  to  come. 

This  greedy  trickster  in  stocks  and  shares, 
he  cheats,  he  lies,  he  wrongs  all  men  —  for 
what?  Follow  him  to  his  luxurious  home 
in  the  suburbs  :  what  do  you  find  ?  A  man 
with  children  on  his  knee,  telling  them 
stories,  promising  them  toys.  His  anxious, 
sordid  life,  for  what  object  is  it  lived  ?  That 
these  children  may  possess  the  things  that 
he  thinks  good  for  them.  Our  very  vices, 
side  by  side  with  our  virtues,  spring  from 
this  one  root  Motherhood.  It  is  the  one 
seed  of  the  universe.  The  planets  are  but 
children  of  the  sun,  the  moon  but  an  off- 
spring of  the  earth,  stone  of  her  stone,  iron 
of  her  iron.  What  is  the  Great  Centre  of 
us  all,  life  animate  and  inanimate  —  if  any 
life  Ife  inanimate  ?  Is  the  eternal  universe 
one  dim  figure.  Motherhood  filling  all  space.'' 

This  scheming  Mother  of  Mayfair,  ang- 
ling for  a  rich  son-in-law  !  Not  a  pleasing 
portrait  to  look  upon,  from  one  point  of 
view.  Let  us  look  at  it,  for  a  moment,  from 
another.     How  weary  she  must  be  !     This 


276     On  the  Motherliness 

is  her  third  "  function  "  to-night ;  the  paint 
is  running  off  her  poor  parched  face.  She 
has  been  snubbed  a  dozen  times  by  her 
social  superiors,  openly  insulted  by  a 
Duchess ;  yet  she  bears  it  with  a  patient 
smile.  It  is  a  pitiful  ambition,  hers :  it  is 
that  her  child  shall  marry  money,  shall  have 
carriages  and  many  servants,  live  in  Park 
Lane,  wear  diamonds,  see  her  name  in  the 
Society  papers.  At  whatever  cost  to  her- 
self, her  daughter  shall,  if  possible,  enjoy 
these  things.  She  could  so  much  more 
comfortably  go  to  bed,  and  leave  the 
child  to  marry  some  well-to-do  commercial 
traveller.  Justice,  Reader,  even  for  such. 
Her  sordid  scheming  is  but  the  deformed 
child  of  Motherhood. 

Motherhood !  it  is  the  gamut  of  God's 
orchestra,  —  savageness  and  cruelty  at  the 
one  end,  tenderness  and  self-sacrifice  at  the 
other. 

The  sparrow-hawk  fights  the  hen,  — he 
seeking  food  for  his  brood,  she  defending 
hers  with  her  life.  The  spider  sucks  the  fly 
to  feed  its  myriad  young  ;  the  cat  tortures 
the  mouse  to  give  its  still  throbbing  carcass 
to  her  kittens,   and   man   wrongs   man    for 


of  Man  277 

children's  sake.  Perhaps  when  the  riot  of 
the  world  reaches  us  whole,  not  broken,  we 
shall  learn  it  is  a  harmony,  each  jangling 
discord  fallen  Into  its  place  around  the 
central  theme.  Motherhood. 


ON     THE    INADVISABILITY    OF 
FOLLOWING    ADVICE 

9 

I  WAS  pacing  the  Euston  platform  late 
one  winter's  night,  waiting  for  the 
last  train  to  Watford,  when  I  noticed  a  man 
cursing  an  automatic  machine.  Twice  he 
shook  his  fist  at  it.  I  expected  every  mo- 
ment to  see  him  strike  it.  Naturally  curious, 
I  drew  near  softly.  I  wanted  to  catch  what 
he  was  saying.  However,  he  heard  my 
approaching  footsteps  and  turned  on  me. 

"  Are  you  the  man,"  said  he,  "  who  was 
here  just  now  ?  " 

"Just  where?"  I  replied.  I  had  been 
pacing  up  and  down  the  platform  for  about 
five  minutes. 

"  Why,  here,  where  we  are  standing,"  he 
snapped  out.  "  Where  do  you  think  *  here ' 
is,  —  over  there  ?  "     He  seemed  irritable. 

"  I  may  have  passed  this  spot  in  the  course 
of  my  peregrinations,  if  that  is  what   you 


Following  Advice       279 

mean,'*  I  replied.  I  spoke  with  studied 
politeness ;  my  idea  was  to  rebuke  his 
rudeness. 

"  I  mean,"  he  answered,  "  are  you  the  man 
that  spoke  to  me,  just  a  minute  ago  ?  '* 

"  I  am  not  that  man,"  I  said  ;  "  good- 
night." 

"  Are  you  sure?  "  he  persisted. 

"  One  is  not  likely  to  forget  talking  to 
you,"  I  retorted. 

His  tone  had  been  most  offensive.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,"  he  replied  grudgingly. 
"  I  thought  you  looked  like  the  m,an  who 
spoke  to  me  a  minute  or  so  ago." 

I  felt  mollified ;  he  was  the  only  other 
man  on  the  platform,  and  I  had  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  to  wait.  "No,  it  certainly  wasn't 
me,"  I  returned  genially,  but  ungrammati- 
cally.    "  Why,  did  you  want  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  he  answered.  "  I  put  a 
penny  in  the  slot  here,"  he  continued,  feel- 
ing apparently  the  need  of  unburdening 
himself ;  "  I  wanted  a  box  of  matches.  I 
could  n't  get  anything  out,  and  I  was  shaking 
the  machine,  and  swearing  at  it  as  one  does, 
when  there  came  along  a  man  about  your 
size,  and  —  you  're  sure  it  was  n't  you  ?  " 


28o     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

"Positive,*'  I  again  ungrammatically  re- 
plied ;  "  I  would  tell  you,  if  it  had  been. 
What  did  he  do  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  saw  what  had  happened,  or 
guessed  it.  He  said,  *  They  are  troublesome 
things,  those  machines ;  they  want  under- 
standing.* I  said,  'They  want  taking  up 
and  flinging  into  the  sea ;  that 's  what  they 
want ! '  I  was  feeling  mad  because  I  had  n't 
a  match  about  me,  and  I  use  a  lot.  He  said, 
'  They  stick  sometimes  ;  the  thing  to  do  is 
to  put  another  penny  in ;  the  weight  of  the 
first  penny  is  not  always  sufficient.  The 
second  penny  loosens  the  drawer  and  tumbles 
out  itself;  so  that  you  get  your  purchase,  to- 
gether with  your  first  penny,  back  again.  1 
have  often  succeeded  that  way.'  Well,  it 
seemed  a  silly  explanation,  but  he  talked  as  if 
he  had  been  weaned  by  an  automatic  machine, 
and  I  was  sawney  enough  to  listen  to  him. 
I  dropped  in  what  I  thought  was  another 
penny.  I  have  just  discovered  it  was  a  two- 
shilling  piece.  The  fool  was  right  to  a  cer- 
tain extent :  I  have  got  something  out ;  I 
have  got  this." 

He  held  it  towards  me  ;  I  looked  at  it.  It 
was  a  packet  of  Everton  toffee. 


Following  Advice       281 

*"'  Two  and  a  penny,"  he  remarked  bitter- 
ly ;  "I  '11  sell  it  for  a  third  of  what  it  cost 
me." 

"  You  have  put  your  money  into  the 
wrong  machine,"  I  suggested. 

"  Well,  I  know  that ! "  he  answered  a 
little  crossly,  as  it  seemed  to  me :  he  was 
not  a  nice  man  ;  had  there  been  any  one 
else  to  talk  to,  I  should  have  left  him.  **  It 
is  n't  losing  the  money  I  mind  so  much  ;  it 's 
getting  this  damn  thing  that  annoys  me.  If 
I  could  find  that  idiot,  I  'd  ram  it  down  his 
throat." 

We  walked  to  the  end  of  the  platform, 
side  by  side,  in  silence. 

"  There  are  people  like  that,"s  he  broke 
out,  as  we  turned,)"  people  who  will  go 
about  giving  advice.  I  '11  be  getting  six 
months  over  one  of  them,  I  'm  always  afraid. 
I  remember  a  pony  I  had  once."  (^  I  judged 
the  man  to  be  a  small  farmer ;  he  talked  in 
a  wurzelly  tone.  I  don't  know  if  you  under- 
stand what  I  mean,  but  an  atmosphere  of 
wurzels  was  the  thing  that  somehow  he  sug- 
gested.) "  It  was  a  thorough-bred  Welsh 
pony,  as  sound  a  little  beast  as  ever  stepped. 
I  'd  had  him  out  to  grass  all  the  winter,  and 


282     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

one  day  in  the  early  spring,  I  thought  I  'd 
take  him  for  a  run.  I  had  to  go  to  Amer- 
sham  on  business.  I  put  him  into  the  cart, 
and  drove  him  across ;  it  is  just  ten  miles 
from  my  place.  He  was  a  bit  uppish,  and 
had  lathered  himself  pretty  freely  by  the 
time  we  reached  the  town. 

"  A  man  was  at  the  door  of  the  hotel. 
He  says,  *  That 's  a  good  pony  of  yours.' 

"'  Pretty  middling,'  I  says. 

"  *  It  does  n't  do  to  overdrive  'em  when 
they  're  young,'  he  says. 

"  I  says,  *  He  's  done  ten  miles,  and  I  've 
done  most  of  the  pulHng.  I  reckon  I  'm  a 
jolly  sight  more  exhausted  than  he  is.' 

"  I  went  inside  and  did  my  business,  and 
when  I  came  out  the  man  was  still  there. 
*  Going  back  up  the  hill  ? '  he  says  to  me. 

"  Somehow  I  did  n't  cotton  to  him  from 
the  beginning.  *  Well,  I  've  got  to  get  the 
other  side  of  it,'  I  says ;  '  and  unless  you 
know  any  patent  way  of  getting  over  a  hill 
without  going  up  it,  I  reckon  I  am.' 

"  He  says,  '  You  take  my  advice :  give 
him  a  pint  of  old  ale  before  you  start.' 

"  *  Old  ale,*  I  says  ;  ^  why,  he  's  a  teeto- 
taler.' 


Following  Advice       283 

« ( Never  you  mind  that/  he  answers ; 
*  you  give  him  a  pint  of  old  ale.  I  know 
these  ponies  ;  he  's  a  good  'un,  but  he  ain't 
set.  A  pint  of  old  ale,  and  he  '11  take  you 
up  that  hill  like  a  cable  tramway,  and  not 
hurt  himself 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  this  class 
of  man.  One  asks  oneself  afterwards  why 
one  did  n't  knock  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and 
run  his  head  into  the  nearest  horse-trough. 
But  at  the  time  one  listens  to  them.  I  got 
a  pint  of  old  ale  in  a  hand  bowl,  and  brought 
it  out.  About  half-a-dozen  chaps  were 
standing  round,  and  of  course  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  chaff. 

"  '  You  're  starting  him  on  the  downward 
course,  Jim,'  says  one  of  them.  *  He  '11 
take  to  gambling,  rob  a  bank,  and  murder 
his  mother.  That 's  always  the  result  of  a 
glass  of  ale,  'cording  to  the  tracts.' 

"  *  He  won't  drink  it  like  that,'  says  an- 
other ;  'it's  as  flat  as  ditch  water.  Put  a 
head  on  it  for  him.' 

"'  Ain't  you  got  a  cigar  for  him  ? '  says  a 
third. 

"  'A  cup  of  coffee  and  a  round  of  buttered 
toast  would  do  him  a  sight  more  good,  a 
cold  day  like  this,'  says  a  fourth. 


284     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

"I  'd  half  a  mind  then  to  throw  the  scuff 
away,  or  drink  it  myself;  it  seemed  a  piece 
of  bally  nonsense,  giving  good  ale  to  a  four- 
year-old  pony ;  but  the  moment  the  beggar 
smelt  the  bowl  he  reached  out  his  head,  and 
lapped  it  up  as  though  he  'd  been  a  Chris- 
tian ;  and  1  jumped  into  the  cart  and  started 
off,  amid  cheers.  We  got  up  the  hill  pretty 
steady.  Then  the  liquor  began  to  work 
into  his  head.  I've  taken  home  a  drunken 
man  more  than  once ;  and  there 's  pleas- 
anter  jobs  than  that.  I  've  seen  a  drunken 
woman,  and  they  *re  worse.  But  a  drunken 
Welsh  pony  I  never  want  to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  so  long  as  I  live.  Having 
four  legs,  he  managed  to  hold  himself  up; 
but  as  to  guiding  himself,  he  couldn't;  and 
as  for  letting  me  do  it,  he  would  n't.  First 
we  were  one  side  of  the  road,  and  then  we 
were  the  other.  When  we  were  not  either 
side,  we  were  crossways  in  the  middle.  I 
heard  a  bicycle  bell  behind  me,  but  I  dared 
not  turn  my  head.  All  I  could  do  was  to 
shout  to  the  fellow  to  keep  where  he  was. 

"  *  I  want  to  pass  you,'  he  sang  out,  so 
soon  as  he  was  near  enough. 

"  *  Well,  you  can't  do  it,'  I  called  back. 


Following  Advice        28^ 

"'Why  can't  I?'  he  answered.  *How 
much  of  the  road  do  you  want  ?  ' 

"  '  All  of  it,  and  a  bit  over,'  I  answered 
him,  'for  this  job,  and  nothing  in  the  way.' 

"  He  followed  me  for  half  a  mile,  abusing 
me ;  and  every  time  he  thought  he  saw  a 
chance  he  tried  to  pass  me.  But  the  pony 
was  always  a  bit  too  smart  for  him.  You 
might  have  thought  the  brute  was  doing  it 
on  purpose. 

"'You're  not  fit  to  be  driving,'  he 
shouted.  He  was  quite  right ;  I  was  n't.  I 
was  feeling  just  about  dead  beat. 

"'What  do  you  think  you  are,'  he  con- 
tinued, —  '  a  musical  ride ? '  (He  was  a  com- 
mon sort  of  fellow.)  'Who  sent  you  home 
with  the  washing  ?  ' 

"  Well,  he  was  making  me  wild  by  this 
time.  'What 's  the  good  of  talking  to  me  ? ' 
I  shouted  back.  '  Come  and  blackguard 
the  pony  if  you  want  to  blackguard  any- 
body. I've  got  all  I  can  do  without  the 
help  of  that  alarm  clock  of  yours.  Go 
away  ;  you're  only  making  him  worse/ 

"  '  What 's  the  matter  with  the  pony  ? '  he 
called  out. 

"  '  Can't  you  see  ?  '  I  answered.  *He  's 
drunk.* 


286     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

"  Well,  of  course  it  sounded  foolish  ;  the 
truth  often  does. 

"  *  One  of  you  's  drunk,'  he  retorted  ;  '  for 
two  pins  I  'd  come  and  haul  you  out  of  the 
cart.' 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  he  had  !  I  'd  havt, 
given  something  to  be  out  of  that  cart.  But 
he  did  n't  have  the  cKance.  At  that  moment 
the  pony  gave  a  sudden  swerve  ;  and  I  take  it 
he  must  have  been  a  bit  too  close.  I  heard 
a  yell  and  a  curse,  and  at  the  same  instant 
I  was  splashed  from  head  to  foot  with  ditch- 
water.  Then  the  brute  bolted.  A  man  was 
coming  along,  asleep  on  the  top  of  a  cart- 
load of  Windsor  chairs.  It 's  disgraceful  the 
way  those  waggoners  go  to  sleep ;  I  wonder 
there  are  not  more  accidents.  I  don't  think 
he  ever  knew  what  had  happened  to  him.  I 
could  n't  look  round  to  see  what  became  of 
him  ;  I  only  saw  him  start.  Halfway  down 
the  hill  a  policeman  holla'd  to  me  to  stop  ;  I 
heard  him  shouting  out  something  about 
furious  driving.  Half  a  mile  this  side  of 
Chesham  we  came  upon  a  girl's  school  walk- 
ing two  and  two,  —  a  '  crocodile,'  they  call  it, 
I  think.  I  bet  you  those  girls  are  still  talk- 
ing about  it.     It  must  have   taken  the  old 


Following  Advice       287 

woman  a  good  hour  to  collect  them  together 
again. 

"It  was  market  day  in  Chesham ;  and  I 
guess  there  has  not  been  a  busier  market- 
day  in  Chesham  before  or  since.  We  went 
through  the  town  at  about  thirty  miles  an 
hour.  I  've  never  seen  Chesham  so  lively, 
it 's  a  sleepy  hole  as  a  rule.  A  mile  outside 
the  town  I  sighted  the  High  Wycombe 
coach.  I  did  n't  feel  I  minded  much ;  I 
had  got  to  that  pass  when  it  did  n't  seem  to 
matter  to  me  what  happened ;  I  only  felt 
curious.  A  dozen  yards  off  the  coach,  the 
pony  stopped  dead  ;  that  jerked  me  off  the 
seat  to  the  bottom  of  the  cart.  I  couldn't 
get  up  because  the  seat  was  on  top  of  me. 
I  could  see  nothing  but  the  sky,  and  occa- 
sionally the  head  of  the  pony,  when  he  stood 
upon  his  hind  legs.  But  I  could  hear  what 
the  driver  of  the  coach  said,  and  I  judged  he 
was  having  trouble  also. 

"  '  Take  that  damn  circus  out  of  the  road,* 
he  shouted.  If  he'd  had  any  sense,  he'd 
have  seen  how  helpless  I  was.  I  could  hear 
his  cattle  plunging  about;  they  are  like  that» 
horses,  —  if  they  see  one  fool,  then  they  all 
want  to  be  fools. 


2  88     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

"  *  Take  it  home,  and  tie  it  up  to  its 
organ,*  shouted  the  guard. 

"Then  an  old  woman  went  into  hy- 
sterics, and  began  laughing  Hke  an  hyena. 
That  started  the  pony  off  again,  and,  as 
far  as  I  could  calculate  by  watching  the 
clouds,  we  did  about  another  four  miles  at 
the  gallop.  Then  he  thought  he  'd  try  to 
jump  a  gate,  and  finding,  I  suppose,  that 
the  cart  hampered  him,  he  started  kicking  it 
to  pieces.  I  'd  never  have  thought  a  cart 
could  have  been  separated  into  so  many 
pieces,  if  I  hadn't  seen  it  done.  When 
he  had  got  rid  of  everything  but  half  a  wheel 
and  the  splashboard  he  bolted  again.  I  re- 
mained behind  with  the  other  ruins,  and  glad 
I  was  to  get  a  little  rest.  He  came  back 
later  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  was  pleased  to 
sell  him  the  next  week  for  a  five-pound 
note  :  it  cost  me  about  another  ten  to  repair 
m.yself. 

"  To  this  day,  I  am  chaffed  about  that 
pony,  and  the  local  temperance  Society  made 
a  lecture  out  of  me.  That 's  what  comes  of 
following  advice." 

I  sympathised  with  him.  I  have  suffered 
from  advice  myself.     I  have  a  friend,  a  City 


Following  Advice       289 

man,  whom  I  meet  occasionally.  One  of  his 
most  ardent  passions  in  life  is  to  make  my 
fortune.  He  button-holes  me  in  Thread- 
needle  Street.  "  The  very  man  I  wanted  to 
see,"  he  says  ;  "  I  'm  going  to  let  you  in  for 
a  good  thing.  We  are  getting  up  a  little 
syndicate."  He  is  for  ever  "  getting  up  "  a 
little  syndicate;  and  for  every  hundred 
pounds  you  put  into  it  you  take  a  thousand 
out.  Had  I  gone  into  all  his  little  syndi- 
cates, I  could  have  been  worth  at  the  pres- 
ent moment,  I  reckon,  two  million  five  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds.  But  I  have  not 
gone  into  all  his  little  syndicates.  I  went 
into  one  years  ago,  when  I  was  younger. 
I  am  still  in  it ;  my  friend  is  confident  that 
my  holding,  later  on,  will  yield  me  thou- 
sands. Being,  however,  hard  up  for  ready 
money,  I  am  willing  to  part  with  my  share  to 
any  deserving  person  at  a  genuine  reduction, 
upon  a  cash  basis.  Another  friend  of  mine 
knows  another  man  who  is  "  in  the  know  ** 
as  regards  racing  matters.  I  suppose  most 
people  possess  a  friend  of  this  type.  He  is 
generally  very  popular  just  before  a  race,  and 
extremely  unpopular  immediately  afterwaras. 
A  third  benefactor  of  mine  is  an  enthusiast 
19 


290     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

upon  the  subject  of  diet.  One  day  he 
brought  me  something  in  a  packet,  and 
pressed  it  into  my  hand  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  is  reheving  you  of  all  your 
troubles. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Open  it  and  see,"  he  answered  in  the 
tone  of  a  pantomime  fairy. 

I  opened  it  and  looked,  but  I  was  no 
wiser. 

"  It 's  tea,"  he  explained. 

"  Oh  !  "  I  replied  ;  "  I  was  wondering  if  it 
could  be  snuff." 

"  Well,  it 's  not  exactly  tea,"  he  contin- 
ued ;  "  it 's  a  sort  of  tea.  You  take  one  cup 
of  that,  one  cup,  and  you  will  never  care 
for  any  other  kind  of  tea  again." 

He  was  quite  right.  I  took  one  cup. 
After  drinking  it  I  felt  I  did  n't  care  for  any 
other  tea.  I  felt  I  did  n't  care  for  anything, 
except  to  die  quietly  and  inoffensively.  He 
called  on  me  a  week  later. 

"  You  remember  that  tea  I  gave  you  ?  "  he 
3aid. 

"  Distinctly,"  I  answered ;  "  I  've  got  the 
taste  of  it  in  my  mouth  now." 

•*  Did  it  upset  you  ?  '*  he  asked. 


Following  Advice       291 

*'  It  annoyed  me  at  the  time,"  I  answered ; 
'*  but  that 's  all  over  now." 

He  seemed  thoughtful.  "  You  were  quite 
correct,"  he  answered  ;  "  it  was  snufF,  a  very 
special  snufF,  sent  me  all  the  way  from  India.'* 

"'  I  can't  say  I  liked  it,"  I  replied. 

"  A  stupid  mistake  of  mine,"  he  went  on  : 
"  I  must  have  mixed  up  the  packets." 

"  Oh,  accidents  will  happen,"  I  said  ;  "  and 
you  won't  make  another  mistake,  I  feel  sure, 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

We  can  all  give  advice.  I  had  the  honoui 
once  of  serving  an  old  gentleman  whose  pro- 
fession it  was  to  give  legal  advice,  and  excel- 
lent legal  advice  he  always  gave.  In  common 
with  most  men  who  know  the  law,  he  had 
little  respect  for  it.  I  have  heard  him  say 
to  a  would-be  litigant :  — 

"  My  dear  sir,  if  a  villain  stopped  me  in 
the  street  and  demanded  of  me  my  watch 
and  chain,  I  should  refuse  to  give  it  to  him- 
If  he  thereupon  said,  *  Then  I  shall  take  it 
from  you  by  brute  force,'  I  should,  old  as 
I  am,  I  feel  convinced,  reply  to  him,  ^  Come 
on.'  But  ifj  on  the  other  hand,  he  were  to 
say  to  me,  *  Very  well,  then  I  shall  take  pro- 
ceedings against  you  in  the  Court  of  Queen's 


292     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

Bench  to  compel  you  to  give  It  up  to  me,* 
I  should  at  once  take  It  from  my  pocket, 
press  it  into  his  hand,  and  beg  of  him  to  say 
no  more  about  the  matter.  And  I  should 
consider  I  was  getting  off  cheaply." 

Yet  that  same  old  gentleman  went  to  law 
himself  with  his  next-door  neighbour  over 
a  dead  poll  parrot  that  was  n't  worth  six- 
pence to  anybody,  and  spent  from  first  to 
last  a  hundred  pounds,  If  he  spent  a  penny. 

"  I  know  I  'm  a  fool,"  he  confessed.  "  I 
have  no  positive  proof  that  it  was  his  cat ; 
but  I  '11  make  him  pay  for  calling  me  an  old 
Bailey  Attorney,  damned  if  I  don't !  " 

We  all  know  how  the  pudding  ought  to 
be  made.  We  do  not  profess  to  be  able  to 
make  It.  That  is  not  our  business  ;  our 
business  Is  to  criticise  the  cook.  It  seems  our 
business  to  criticise  so  many  things  that  it  Is 
not  our  business  to  do.  We  are  all  critics 
nowadays.  I  have  my  opinion  of  you. 
Reader,  and  you  possibly  have  your  own 
opinion  of  me.  I  do  not  seek  to  know  it ; 
personally,  I  prefer  the  man  who  says  what 
he  has  to  say  of  me  behind  my  back.  I  re- 
member, when  on  a  lecturing  tour,  the  ground 
plan  of  the  Hall  often  necessitated  mv  min- 


Following  Advice       293 

gling  with  the  audience  as  they  streamed 
out.  This  never  happened  but  I  would 
overhear  somebody  in  front  of  me  whisper 
to  his  or  her  companion:  "  Take  care  ;  he  's 
just  behind  you."  I  always  felt  so  grateful 
to  that  whisperer. 

At  a  Bohemian  Club,  I  was  once  drinking 
coffee  with  a  Novelist,  who  happened  to  be 
a  broad-shouldered,  athletic  man.  A  fellow- 
member,  joining  us,  said  to  the  Novelist,  "  I 
have  just  finished  that  last  book  of  yours  ; 
I  '11  tell  you  my  candid  opinion  of  it." 
Promptly  replied  the  Novelist,  "  I  give 
you  fair  warning :  if  you  do,  I  shall  punch 
your  head."  We  never  heard  that  candid 
opinion. 

Most  of  our  leisure  time  we  spend  sneer- 
ing at  one  another.  It  is  a  wonder,  going 
about  as  we  do  with  our  noses  so  high  in 
the  air,  we  do  not  walk  off  this  little  round 
world  into  space,  all  of  us.  The  Masses 
sneer  at  the  Classes.  The  morals  of  the 
Classes  are  shocking.  If  only  the  Classes 
would  consent  as  a  body  to  be  taught  be- 
haviour by  a  Committee  of  the  Masses,  how 
very  much  better  It  would  be  for  them  1  If 
only  the   Classes   would  neglect  their  own 


294     ^^  ^^^  Inadvisability  of 

interests  and  devote  themselves  to  the  wel- 
fare of  the  Masses,  the  Masses  would  be 
more  pleased  with  them. 

The  Classes  sneer  at  the  Masses.  If  only 
the  Masses  would  follow  the  advice  given 
them  by  the  Classes ;  if  only  they  would  be 
thrifty  on  their  ten  shillings  a  week  :  if  only 
they  would  all  be  teetotalers,  or  drink  old 
claret,  which  is  not  intoxicating;  if  only  all 
the  girls  would  be  domestic  servants  on  five 
pounds  a  year,  and  not  waste  their  money 
on  feathers  ;  if  only  the  men  would  be  con- 
tent to  work  for  fourteen  hours  a  day,  and 
to  sing  in  tune,  "  God  bless  the  Squire  and 
his  relations,"  and  would  consent  to  be  kept 
in  their  proper  stations,  —  all  things  would  go 
swimmingly  —  for  the  Classes. 

The  New  Woman  pooh-poohs  the  old ; 
the  Old  Woman  is  indignant  with  the  New. 
The  Chapel  denounces  the  Stage;  the  Stage 
ridicules  Little  Bethel ;  the  Minor  Poet 
sneers  at  the  world;  the  world  laughs  at  the 
Minor  Poet. 

Man  criticises  Woman.  We  are  not  alto- 
gether pleased  with  woman.  We  discuss 
her  shortcomings ;  we  advise  her  for  her 
good.     If  only  English  wives  would  dress 


Following  Advice       295 

as  French  wives,  talk  as  American  wives, 
cook  as  German  wives,  if  only  women  would 
be  precisely  what  we  want  them  to  be, — 
patient  and  hard-working,  brilliantly  witty 
and  exhaustively  domestic,  bewitching,  amen- 
able, and  less  suspicious,  —  how  very  much 
better  it  would  be  for  them  —  also  for  us.  We 
work  so  hard  to  teach  them,  but  they  will 
not  listen.  Instead  of  paying  attention  to 
our  wise  counsel,  the  tiresome  creatures  are 
wasting  their  time  CMticIsing  us.  It  is  a 
popular  game,  this  game  of  school.  All 
that  Is  needful  is  a  doorstep,  a  cane,  and 
six  other  children.  The  difficulty  is  the  six 
other  children.  Every  child  wants  to  be  the 
schoolmaster  ;  they  will  keep  jumping  up, 
saying  it  is  their  turn. 

Woman  wants  to  take  the  stick  now  and 
put  man  on  the  doorstep.  There  r^re  one 
or  two  things  she  has  got  to  say  to  him. 
He  is  not  at  all  the  man  she  approves  of. 
He  must  begin  by  getting  rid  of  all  his 
natural  desires  and  propensities ;  that  done, 
she  will  take  him  in  hand  and  make  of 
him,  not  a  man,  but  something  very  much 
superior. 

It  would  be  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds 


296     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

if  everj'body  would  only  follow  our  advice.  I 
wonder,  would  Jerusalem  have  been  the 
cleanly  city  it  is  reported,  if,  instead  of  troub- 
ling himself  concerning  his  own  twopenny- 
halfpenny  doorstep,  each  citizen  had  gone 
out  into  the  road  and  given  eloquent  lec- 
tures to  all  the  other  inhabitants  on  the  sub- 
ject of  sanitation. 

We  have  taken  to  criticising  the  Creator 
Himself  of  late.  The  world  is  wrong ;  we 
are  wrong.  If  only  He  had  taken  our  ad- 
vice during  thoce  first  six  days  ! 

Why  do  I  seem  to  have  been  scooped  out 
and  filled  up  with  lead?  Why  do  I  hate 
the  smell  of  bacon  and  feel  that  nobody 
cares  for  me  .f*  It  is  because  champagne  and 
lobsters  have  been  made  wrong. 

Why  do  Edwin  and  Angehna  quarrel  ? 
It  is  because  Edwin  has  been  given  a  fine> 
high-spirited  nature  that  will  not  brook  con- 
tradiction ;  while  Angelina,  poor  girl,  has 
been  cursed  with  contradictory  instincts. 

Why  is  excellent  Mr.  Jones  brought 
down  next  door  to  beggary  ?  Mr.  Jones 
had  an  income  of  a  thousand  a  year,  secured 
by  the  Funds.  But  there  came  along  a 
wicked     Company     promoter     (Why     are 


Following  Advice       297 

wicked  Company  promoters  permitted  ?)  with 
a  prospectus,  telling  good  Mr.  Jones  how  to 
obtain  a  hundred  per  cent  for  his  money  by 
investing  it  in  some  scheme  for  the  swind- 
ling of  Mr.  Jones's  fellow-citizens. 

The  scheme  does  not  succeed  ;  the  people 
swindled  turn  out,  contrary  to  the  promise 
of  the  prospectus,  to  be  Mr.  Jones  and  his 
fellow-investors.  Why  does  Heaven  allow 
these  wrongs  ? 

Why  does  Mrs.  Brown  leave  her  husband 
and  children,  to  run  off  with  the  New  Doc- 
tor? It  is  because  an  ill-advised  Creator 
has  given  Mrs.  Brown  and  the  New  Doctor 
unduly  strong  emotions.  Neither  Mrs. 
Brown  nor  the  New  Doctor  are  to  be 
blamed.  If  any  human  being  be  answerable 
it  is  probably  Mrs.  Brown's  grandfather,  or 
some  early  ancestor  of  the  New  Doctor's. 

We  shall  criticise  Heaven,  when  we  get 
there.  I  doubt  if  any  of  us  will  be  pleased 
with  the  arrangements,  we  have  grown  so 
exceedingly  critical. 

It  was  once  said  of  a  very  superior  young 
man  that  he  seemed  to  be  under  the  im- 
pression that  God  Almighty  had  made  the 
universe  chiefly  to  hear  what  he  would  say 


298     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

about  it.  Consciously  or  unconsciously, 
most  of  us  are  of  this  way  of  thinking.  It 
is  an  age  of  mutual  improvement  societies, 
—  a  delightful  idea,  everybody's  business 
being  to  improve  everybody  else,  —  of  ama- 
teur parliaments,  of  literary  councils,  of 
playgoers'  clubs. 

First  Night  criticism  seems  to  have  died 
out  of  late,  the  Student  of  the  Drama  having 
come  to  the  conclusion,  possibly,  that  plays 
are  not  worth  criticising.  But  in  my  young 
days  we  were  very  earnest  at  this  work. 
We  went  to  the  play  less  with  the  selfish 
desire  of  enjoying  our  evening  than  with  the 
noble  aim  of  elevating  the  Stage.  Maybe 
we  did  good,  maybe  we  were  needed,  —  let 
us  think  so.  Certain  it  is,  many  of  the  old 
absurdities  have  disappeared  from  the  The- 
atre, and  our  rough-and-ready  criticism  may 
have  helped  the  happy  despatch.  A  folly  is 
often  served  by  an  unwise  remedy. 

The  dramatist  in  those  days  had  to  reckon 
with  his  audience.  Gallery  and  Pit  took  an 
interest  in  his  work  such  as  Galleries  and 
Pits  no  longer  take.  I  recollect  witnessing 
the  production  of  a  very  blood-curdling 
melodrama    at,    I    think,   the    old    Queen's 


Following  Advice       299 

Theatre.  The  heroine  had  been  given  by 
the  author  a  quite  unnecessary  amount  of 
conversation,  so  we  considered.  The  woman, 
whenever  she  appeared  on  the  stage,  talked 
by  the  yard;  she  could  not  do  a  simple  little 
thing  like  cursing  the  Villain  under  about 
twenty  lines.  When  the  hero  asked  her  if 
she  loved  him  she  stood  up  and  made  a 
speech  about  it  that  lasted  three  minutes  by 
the  watch.  One  dreaded  to  see  her  open 
her  mouth.  In  the  Third  Act,  somebody 
got  hold  of  her  and  shut  her  up  in  a  dun- 
geon. He  was  not  a  nice  man,  speaking 
generally,  but  we  felt  he  was  the  man  for  the 
situation,  and  the  house  cheered  him  to  the 
echo.  We  flattered  ourselves  we  had  got 
rid  of  her  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Then 
some  fool  of  a  turnkey  came  along,  and  she 
appealed  to  him,  through  the  grating,  to  let 
her  out  for  a  few  minutes.  The  turnkey,  a 
good  but  soft-hearted  man,  hesitated. 

"  Don't  you  do  it,"  shouted  one  earnest 
Student  of  the  Drama,  from  the  gallery ; 
"she's  all  right.     Keep  her  there." 

The  old  idiot  paid  no  attention  to  our 
advice ;  he  argued  the  matter  to  himself. 
"  'Tis  but  a  trifling  request,"  he  remarked; 
**  and  it  will  make  her  happy." 


300     On  the  Inadvisabilitv  of 

"  Yes,  but  what  about  us  ?  **  Teplled  the 
same  voice  from  the  gallery.  "  You  don't 
know  her.  You  Ve  only  just  come  on ; 
we  've  been  listening  to  her  all  the  evening. 
She  's  quiet  now ;  you  let  her  be." 

"  Oh,  let  me  out,  if  only  for  one  moment !  " 
shrieked  the  poor  woman.  "  I  have  some- 
thing that  I  must  say  to  my  child." 

"  Write  it  on  a  bit  of  paper,  and  pass  it 
out,"  suggested  a  voice  from  the  Pit. 
"  We  '11  see  that  he  gets  it." 

"  Shall  I  keep  a  mother  from  her  dying 
child  ?  "  mused  the  turnkey.  "  No,  it  would 
be  inhuman," 

"  No,  it  would  n't,"  persisted  the  voice  of 
the  Pit ;  "  not  in  this  instance.  It 's  too 
much  talk  that  has  made  the  poor  child  ill." 

The  turnkey  would  not  be  guided  by  us. 
He  opened  the  cell  door  amidst  the  execra' 
tions  of  the  whole  house.  She  talked  to 
her  child  for  about  five  minutes,  at  the  end 
of  which  time  it  died. 

"  Ah,  he  Is  dead  ! "  shrieked  the  distressed 
parent. 

"  Lucky  beggar !  "  was  the  unsympathetic 
rejoinder  of  the  house. 

Sometimes  the  criticism  of  the  audience 


Following  Advice       301 

would  take  the  form  of  remarks  addressed 
by  one  gentleman  to  another.  We  had  been 
listening  one  night  to  a  play  in  which  action 
seemed  to  be  unnecessarily  subordinated  to 
dialogue,  and  somewhat  poor  dialogue  at 
that.  Suddenly,  across  the  wearying  talk  from 
the  stage,  came  the  stentorian  whisper  :  — 

"  Jim  !  " 

"  Hallo ! " 

"  Wake  me  up  when  the  play  begins." 

This  was  followed  by  an  ostentatious 
sound  as  of  snoring.  Then  the  voice  of 
the  second  speaker  was  heard :  — 

"  Sammy  ! " 

His  friend  appeared  to  awake. 

"  Eh  ?  Yes  ?  What 's  up  .?  Has  any- 
thing happened  ? " 

"  Wake  you  up  at  half-past  eleven  in  any 
event,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Thanks ;  do,  sonny."  And  the  critic 
slept  again. 

Yes,  we  took  an  interest  in  our  plays  then. 
I  wonder  shall  I  ever  enjoy  the  British 
Drama  again  as  I  enjoyed  it  in  those  days  ? 
Shall  I  ever  enjoy  a  supper  again  as  I  en- 
joyed the  tripe  and  onions  washed  down 
with  bitter  beer  at  the  bar  of  the  old  "  Al- 


30  2     On  the  In  advisability  of 

bion  "  ?  I  have  tried  many  suppers  after 
the  theatre  since  then,  and  some,  when 
friends  have  been  in  generous  mood,  have 
been  expensive  and  elaborate.  The  cook 
may  have  come  from  Paris,  his  portrait  may 
be  in  the  illustrated  papers,  his  salary  may 
be  reckoned  by  hundreds  ;  but  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  with  his  art,  for  all  that  I  miss 
a  flavour  in  his  suppers.  There  is  a  sauce 
he  has  not  the  secret  of 

Nature  has  her  coinage,  and  demands 
payment  in  her  own  currency.  At  nature's 
shop  it  is  you  yourself  must  pay.  Your 
unearned  increment,  your  inherited  fortune, 
your  luck,  are  not  legal  tenders  across  her 
counter. 

You  want  a  good  appetite.  Nature  is 
quite  willing  to  supply  you.  "  Certainly, 
sir,"  she  replies, "  I  can  do  you  a  very  excel- 
lent article  indeed.  I  have  here  a  real  genuine 
hunger  and  thirst  that  will  make  your  meal 
a  delight  to  you.  You  shall  eat  heartily  and 
with  zest,  and  you  shall  rise  from  the  table 
refreshed,  invigorated,  and  cheerful." 

"Just  the  very  thing  I  want,"  exclaims 
the  gourmet^  delightedly.  "  Tell  me  the 
price." 


Following  Advice       303 

"  The  price,"  answers  Mrs.  Nature,  "  is 
one  long  day's  hard  work." 

The  customer's  face  falls  ;  he  handles  ner- 
vously his  heavy  purse. 

"  Cannot  I  pay  for  it  in  money  ? "  he 
asks.  "  I  don't  like  work,  but  I  am  a  rich 
man.  I  can  afford  to  keep  French  cooks, 
to  purchase  old  wines." 

Nature  shakes  her  head. 

"  1  cannot  take  your  cheques  ;  tissue  and 
nerve  are  my  charges.  For  these  I  can  give 
you  an  appetite  that  will  make  a  rump  steak 
and  a  tankard  of  ale  more  delicious  to  you 
than  any  dinner  that  the  greatest  chef  in 
Europe  could  put  before  you.  I  can  even 
promise  you  that  a  hunk  of  bread  and  cheese 
shall  be  a  banquet  to  you  ;  but  you  must 
pay  my  price  in  my  money  ;  I  do  not  deal 
in  yours." 

And  next  the  Dilettante  enters,  demand- 
ing a  taste  for  Art  and  Literature,  and  this 
also  Nature  is  quite  prepared  to  supply. 

"  I  can  give  you  true  delight  in  all  these 
things,"  she  answers.  "  Music  shall  be  as 
wings  to  you,  lifting  you  above  the  turmoil 
of  the  world.  Through  Art  you  shall  catch 
a  glimpse  of  Truth.      Along  the  pleasant 


304     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

paths  of  Literature  you  shall  walk  as  beside 
still  waters." 

"  And  your  charge  ?  "  cries  the  delighted 
customer. 

"  These  things  are  somewhat  expensive," 
replies  Nature.  "  I  want  from  you  a  life 
lived  simply,  free  from  all  desire  of  worldly 
success,  a  life  from  which  passion  has  been 
lived  out ;  a  life  to  which  appetite  has  been 
subdued." 

"  But  you  mistake,  my  dear  lady,"  replies 
the  Dilettante ;  "  I  have  many  friends,  pos- 
sessed of  taste,  and  they  are  men  who  do 
not  pay  this  price  for  it.  Their  houses  are 
full  of  beautiful  pictures ;  they  rave  about 
*  nocturnes  '  and  '  symphonies  ; '  their  shelves 
are  packed  with  first  editions.  Yet  they  are 
men  of  luxury  and  wealth  and  fashion. 
They  trouble  much  concerning  the  making 
of  money,  and  Society  is  their  heaven.  Can- 
not I  be  as  one  of  these  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  deal  in  the  tricks  of  apes," 
answers  Nature,  coldly ;  "  the  culture  of 
these  friends  of  yours  is  a  mere  pose,  a 
fashion  of  the  hour,  their  talk  mere  parrot 
chatter.  Yes,  you  can  purchase  such  culture 
as  this,  and  pretty  cheaply,  but  a  passion 


Following  Advice       305 

for  skittles  would  be  of  more  service  to  you, 
and  bring  you  more  genuine  enjoyment. 
My  goods  are  of  a  different  class ;  I  fear  we 
waste  each  other's  time." 

And  next  there  comes  the  boy,  asking 
with  a  blush  for  love,  and  Nature's  motherly 
old  heart  goes  out  to  him,  for  it  is  an  article 
she  loves  to  sell,  and  she  loves  those  who 
come  to  purchase  it  of  her.  So  she  leans 
across  the  counter,  smiling,  and  tells  him 
that  she  has  the  very  thing  he  wants,  and  he, 
trembling  with  excitement,  likewise  asks  the 
figure. 

"  It  costs  a  good  deal,"  explains  Nature, 
but  in  no  discouraging  tone ;  "  it  is  the 
most  expensive  thing  in  all  my  shop.'* 

"  I  am  rich,"  replies  the  lad.  "  My 
father  worked  hard  and  saved,  and  he  has 
left  me  all  his  wealth.  I  have  stocks  and 
shares  and  lands  and  factories,  and  will  pay 
any  price  in  reason  for  this  thing." 

But  Nature,  looking  graver,  lays  her  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"  Put  by  your  purse,  boy,"  she  says  ;  "  my 
price  is  not  a  price  in  reason,  nor  is  gold  the 
metal  that  I  deal  in.  There  are  many  shops 
in   various    streets  where    your   bank-notes 


3o6     On  the  Inadvisability  of 

will  be  accepted.  But  if  you  will  take  an 
old  woman's  advice,  you  will  not  go  to  them. 
The  thing  they  will  sell  you  will  bring 
sorrow  and  do  evil  to  you.  It  is  cheap 
enough,  but,  like  all  things  cheap,  it  is  not 
worth  the  buying.  No  man  purchases  it, 
only  the  fool." 

"  And  what  is  the  cost  of  the  thing  you 
sell,  then  ? "  asks  the  lad. 

"  Self-forgetfulness,  tenderness,  strength," 
answers  the  old  Dame  ;  "•  the  lovo,  of  all 
things  that  are  of  good  repute,  the  hate  of 
all  things  evil :  courage,  sympathy,  self- 
respect,  —  these  things  purchase  love.  Put 
by  your  purse,  lad,  it  will  serve  you  in 
other  ways ;  but  it  will  not  buy  for  you  the 
goods  upon  my  shelves." 

"  Then  am  I  no  better  off  than  the  poor 
man  ?  "  demands  the  lad. 

"  I  know  not  wealth  or  poverty  as  you 
understand  it,"  answers  Nature.  "  Here  I 
exchange  realities  only  for  realities.  You 
ask  for  my  treasures  ;  I  ask  for  your  brain 
and  heart  in  exchange,  —  yours,  boy,  not 
your  father's,  not  another's." 

"  And  this  price,"  he  argues,  "  how  shall 
I  obtain  it?" 


Following  Advice       307 

"  Go  about  the  world,"  replies  the  great 
Lady.  "  Labour,  suffer,  help.  Come  back 
to  me  when  you  have  earned  your  wages, 
and  according  to  how  much  you  bring  me 
so  we  will  do  business." 

Is  real  wealth  so  unevenly  distributed  as 
we  think?  Is  not  Fate  the  true  Socialist ? 
Who  is  the  rich  man,  who  the  poor  ?  Do 
we  know  ?  Does  even  the  man  himself 
know  ?  Are  we  not  striving  for  the  shadow, 
missing  the  substance .?  Take  life  at  its 
highest  ;  which  was  the  happier  man,  rich 
Solomon  or  poor  Socrates  ?  Solomon  seems 
ro  have  had  most  things  that  most  men 
most  desire  —  maybe  too  much  of  some  for 
his  own  comfort.  Socrates  had  little  beyond 
what  he  carried  about  with  him,  but  that 
was  a  good  deal.  According  to  our  scales, 
Solomon  should  have  been  one  of  the  happiest 
men  that  ever  lived,  Socrates  one  of  the 
most  wretched.     But  was  it  so  ? 

Or  taking  life  at  its  lowest,  with  pleasure 
its  only  goal,  is  my  lord  Tom  Noddy,  in 
the  stalls,  so  very  much  jollier  than  'Any 
in  the  gallery  ?  Were  beer  ten  shillings  the 
bottle,  and  champagne  fourpence  a  quart, 
which,  think  you,  we  should  clamour  for? 


3o8       Following  Advice 

If  every  West  End  Club  had  its  skittle 
alley,  and  billiards  could  only  be  played  in 
East  End  pubs,  which  game,  rny  lord, 
would  you  select?  Is  the  air  of  Berkeley 
Square  so  much  more  joy-giving  than  the 
atmosphere  of  Seven  Dials  ?  I  find  myself 
a  piquancy  in  the  air  of  Seven  Dials,  missing 
from  Berkeley  Square.  Is  there  so  vast  a 
difference  between  horse-hair  and  straw, 
when  you  are  tired  ?  Is  happiness  multi- 
plied by  the  number  of  rooms  in  one's 
house?  Are  Lady  Ermintrude's  lips  so 
very  much  sweeter  than  Sally's  of  the  Alley  ? 
What  is  success  in  life? 


ON  THE  PLAYING  OF  MARCHES 

AT   THE   FUNERALS   OF 

MARIONETTES 

HE  began  the  day  badly.  He  took  me 
out  and  lost  me.  It  would  be  so 
much  better  would  he  consent  to  the  usual 
arrangement,  and  allow  me  to  take  him  out. 
I  am  far  the  abler  leader ;  I  say  it  without 
conceit.  I  am  older  than  he  is,  and  I  am  less 
excitable.  I  do  not  stop  and  talk  with  every 
person  I  meet,  and  then  forget  where  I  am. 
I  do  less  to  distract  myself:  I  rarely  fight; 
I  never  feel  I  want  to  run  after  cats ;  I  take 
but  little  pleasure  in  frightening  children.  I 
have  nothing  to  think  about  but  the  walk 
and  the  getting  home  again.  If,  as  I  say, 
he  would  give  up  taking  me  cut,  and  let  me 
take  him  out,  there  would  be  less  trouble  all 
round.  But  into  this  I  have  never  been 
able  to  persuade  him. 

He  had   mislaid   me  once  or    twice,  but 


3IO     On  Playing  of  Marches 

in  Sloane  Square  he  lost  me  entirely. 
When  he  loses  me  he  stands  and  barks  for 
me.  If  only  he  would  remain  where  he  first 
barked,  I  might  find  my  way  to  him  ;  but 
before  I  can  cross  the  road,  he  is  barking 
halfway  down  the  next  street.  I  am  not  so 
young  as  I  was ;  and  I  sometimes  think  he 
exercises  me  more  than  is  good  for  me.  I 
could  see  him  from  where  I  was  standing  in 
the  King's  road.  Evidently  he  was  most 
indignant.  I  was  too  far  off  to  distinguish 
the  barks,  but  I  could  guess  what  he  was 
saying,  — 

"  Damn  that  man  !  he's  off  again." 
He  made  inquiries  of  a  passing  dog, — 
"  You  have  n't  smelt  my  man  about  any- 
where, have  you  ? " 

(A  dog,  of  course,  would  never  speak  of 
seeing  anybody  or  anything,  smell  being  his 
leading  sense.  Reaching  the  top  of  a  hill, 
he  would  say  to  his  companion,  "  Lovely 
smell  from  here,  I  always  think  ;  I  could  sit 
and  sniff  here  all  the  afternoon."  Or,  pro- 
posing a  walk,  he  would  say,  "  I  like  the 
road  by  the  canal,  don't  you  ?  There 's 
something  interesting  to  catch  your  nose 
at  every  turn.") 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   311 

"  No,  I  have  n't  smelt  any  man  in  par- 
ticular," answered  the  other  dog.  "  What 
sort  of  a  smelling  man  is  yours  ?  " 

"  Oh,  an  egg-and-bacony  sort  of  a  man, 
with  a  dash  of  soap  about  him." 

"  That 's  nothing  to  go  by,"  retorted  the 
other ;  "  most  men  would  answer  to  that 
description,  this  time  of  the  morning.  Where 
were  you  when  you  last  noticed  him  ?  " 

At  this  moment  he  caught  sight  of  me, 
and  came  up,  pleased  to  find  me,  but  vexed 
with  me  for  having  got  lost. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are,"  he  barked  ;  "  did  n't 
you  see  me  go  round  the  corner  ?  Do  keep 
closer.  Bothered  if  half  my  time  is  n't 
taken  up  finding  you  and  losing  you 
again." 

The  incident  appeared  to  have  made  him 
bad-tempered ;  he  was  just  in  the  humour 
for  a  row  of  any  sort.  At  the  top  of  Sloane 
Street,  a  stout  military-looking  gentleman 
started  running  after  the  Chelsea  'bus.  With 
a  "  Hooroo  "  William  Smith  was  after  him. 
Had  the  old  gentleman  taken  no  notice,  all 
would  have  been  well.  A  butcher  boy, 
driving  just  behind,  would  —  I  could  read 
it  in  his  eye  —  have  caught  Smith  a  flick  as 


312     On  Playing  of  Marches 

he  darted  into  the  road,  which  would  have 
served  him  right;  the  old  gentlerxian  would 
have  captured  his  'bus;  and  the  affair  would 
have  been  ended.  Unfortunately,  he  was 
that  type  of  retired  military  man  all  gout 
.and  curry  and  no  sense.  He  stopped  to 
swear  at  the  dog.  That,  of  course,  was 
what  Smith  wanted.  It  is  not  often  he 
gets  a  scrimmage  with  a  full-grown  man. 
*'They  're  a  poor-spirited  lot,  most  of 
them,"  he  thinks;  "they  won't  even  answer 
you  back.  I  like  a  man  who  shows  a  bit 
of  pluck."  He  was  frenzied  with  delight 
at  his  success.  He  flew  round  his  victim, 
weaving  whooping  circles  and  curves  that 
paralysed  the  old  gentleman  as  though  they 
had  been  the  mystic  figures  of  a  Merlin. 
The  colonel  clubbed  his  umbrella,  and 
attempted  to  defend  himself.  I  called  to 
the  dog,  I  gave  good  advice  to  the  colonel 
(I  judged  him  to  be  a  colonel ;  the  louder 
he  spoke,  the  less  one  could  understand 
him),  but  both  were  too  excited  to  listen  to 
me.  A  sympathetic  'bus  driver  leaned  over 
and  whispered  hoarse  counsel. 

"  Ketch  'im  by  the  tail,  sir,"  he  advised 
the  old  gentleman;  "don't  you  be  afraid  of 
him  ;  you  ketch  *im  firmly  by  the  tail." 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   313 

A  milkman,  on  the  other  hand,  sought 
rather  to  encourage  Smith,  shouting  as  he 
passed, — 

"Good  dog,  kill  him!" 

A  child,  brained  within  an  inch  by  the 
old  gentleman's  umbrella,  began  to  cry. 
The  nurse  told  the  old  gentleman  he  was  a 
fool, —  a  remark  which  struck  me  as  singu- 
larly apt.  The  old  gentleman  gasped  back 
that  perambulators  were  illegal  on  the  pave- 
ment, and,  between  his  exercises,  inquired 
after  myself  A  crowd  began  to  collect, 
and  a  policeman  strolled  up. 

It  was  not  the  right  thing :  I  do  not  de- 
fend myself;  but,  at  this  point,  the  temp- 
tation came  to  me  to  desert  William  Smith. 
He  likes  a  street  row;  I  don't.  These 
things  are  matters  of  temperament.  I  have 
also  noticed  that  he  has  the  happy  instinct 
of  knowing  when  to  disappear  from  a  crisis, 
and  the  ability  to  do  so;  mysteriously  turn- 
ing up,  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  clad  in  a 
peaceful  and  preoccupied  air,  and  to  al. 
appearances  another  and  a  better  dog. 

Consoling  myself  with  the  reflection  that  J 
could  be  of  no  practical  assistance  to  him, 
and  remembering  with  some  satisfaction  that; 


3  14     On  Playing  of  Marches 

by  a  fortunate  accident,  he  was  without  his 
collar,  which  bears  my  name  and  address,  I 
shipped  round  the  off  side  of  a  Vauxhall 'bus, 
making  no  attempt  at  ostentation,  and  worked 
my  way  home  through  Lowndes  Square  and 
the  Park. 

Five  minutes  after  I  had  sat  down  to 
lunch,  he  flung  open  the  dining-room  door 
and  marched  in.  It  is  his  customary 
*'  entrance."  In  a  previous  state  of  existence, 
his  soul  was  probably  that  of  an  Actor- 
Manager. 

From  his  exuberant  self-satisfaction,  I  was 
inclined  to  think  he  must  have  succeeded  in 
following  the  milkman's  advice  ;  at  all  events, 
I  have  not  seen  the  colonel  since.  His  bad 
temper  had  disappeared,  but  his  "uppish- 
ness  "  had,  if  possible,  increased.  Previous  to 
his  return,  I  had  given  The  O'Shannon  a 
biscuit.  The  O'Shannon  had  been  insulted  ; 
he  did  not  want  a  dog  biscuit  ;  if  he  could 
not  have  a  grilled  kidney  he  did  not  want 
anything.  He  had  thrown  the  biscuit  on 
the  floor.  Smith  saw  it  and  made  for  it. 
Now  Smith  never  eats  biscuits.  I  give  him 
one  occasionally,  and  he  at  once  proceeds  to 
hide  it.     He  h  a  thrifty  dog ;  he  thinks  of  the 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   315 

future.  "  You  never  know  what  may  hap- 
pen," he  says  ;  "suppose  the  Guv'nor  dies,  or 
goes  mad,  or  bankrupt,!  may  be  glad  even  of 
this  biscuit ;  I  '11  put  it  under  the  door-mat 
—  no,  I  won't,  somebody  will  find  it  there ; 
I  '11  scratch  a  hole  in  the  tennis  lawn  and 
bury  it  there.  That  's  a  good  idea  ;  perhaps 
it'll  grow."  Once  I  caught  him  hiding  it 
in  my  study,  behind  the  shelf  devoted  to 
my  own  books.  It  offended  me,  his  doing 
that  ;  the  argument  was  so  palpable.  Gen- 
erally, wherever  he  hides  it  somebody  finds 
it.  We  find  it  under  our  pillows,  inside 
our  boots  ;  no  place  seems  safe.  This  time 
he  had  said  to  himself,  "  By  Jove  !  a  whole 
row  of  the  Guv'nor's  books.  Nobody  will 
ever  want  to  take  these  out :  I  '11  hide  it 
here."  One  feels  a  thing  like  that  from 
one's  own  dog. 

But  The  ©'Shannon's  biscuit  was  another 
matter.  Honesty  is  the  best  policy ;  but 
dishonesty  is  the  better  fun.  He  made  a 
dash  for  it  and  commenced  to  devour  it 
greedily ;  you  might  have  thought  he  had 
not  tasted  food  for  a  week. 

The  indignation  of  The  O'Shannon  was  a 
sight  for  the  gods.     He  has  the  good  nature 


3  1 6     On  Playing  of  Marches 

of  his  race  :  had  Smith  asked  him  for  the 
biscuit,  he  would  probably  have  given  it 
to  him;  it  was  the  insult,  the  immorality 
of  the  proceeding,  that  maddened  The 
O'Shannon. 

For  a  moment  he  was  paralysed. 

"Well,  of  all  the Did  ye  see  that 

now  ?  "  he  said  to  me  with  his  eyes.  Then 
he  made  a  rush  and  snatched  the  biscuit  out 
of  Smith's  very  jaws.  "  Ye  onprincipled 
black  Saxon  thief,"  growled  The  O'Shan- 
non, "  how  dare  ye  take  my  biscuit  ?  " 

"You  miserable  Irish  cur,"  growled  Smith, 
"  how  was  I  to  know  it  was  your  biscuit  ? 
Does  everything  on  the  floor  belong  to  you  ? 
Perhaps  you  think  I  belong  to  you  ;  I  'n:  on 
the  floor.  I  don't  believe  it  is  your  biscuit, 
you  long-eared,  snubbed-nosed  bog-trotter; 
give  it  me  back." 

"  I  don't  require  any  of  your  argument, 
you  flop-eared  son  of  a  tramp  with  half  a 
tail,"  replied  The  O'Shannon.  "  You  come 
and  take  it,  if  you  think  you  are  dog 
enough." 

He  did  think  he  was  dog  enough.  He  is 
half  the  size  of  The  O'Shannon,  but  such 
considerations   weigh    not   with    him.     His 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   317 

argument  is,  if  a  dog  is  too  big  for  yo'i  to 
fight  the  whole  of  him,  take  a  bit  of  him  and 
fight  that.  He  generally  gets  licked,  but 
what  is  left  of  him  invariably  swaggers  about 
afterwards  under  the  impression  it  is  the  vic- 
tor. When  he  is  dead,  he  will  say  to  him- 
self, as  he  settles  himself  in  his  grave, 
"  Well,  I  flatter  myself  I  've  laid  out  that 
old  world  at  last.  It  won't  trouble  me  any 
more,  I  'm  thinking." 

On  this  occasion,  /  took  a  hand  in  the 
fight.  It  becomes  necessary  at  intervals  to 
remind  Master  Smith  that  the  man,  as  the 
useful  and  faithful  friend  of  dog,  has  his 
rights.  I  deemed  such  interval  had  arrived. 
He  flung  himself  on  to  the  sofa,  muttering. 
It  sounded  like,  "  Wish  I  'd  never  got  up 
this  morning.      Nobody  understands  me." 

Nothing,  however,  sobers  him  for  long. 
Half-an-hour  later,  he  was  killing  the  next- 
door  cat.  He  will  never  learn  sense ;  he 
has  been  killing  that  cat  for  the  last  three 
months.  Why  the  next  morning  his  nose 
is  invariably  twice  its  natural  size,  while  for 
the  next  week  he  can  see  objects  on  one  side 
of  his  head  only,  he  never  seems  to  grasp ; 
I  suppose  he  attributes  it  to  change  in  the 
weather. 


3i8     On  Playing  of  Marches 

He  ended  up  the  afternoon  with  what  he 
no  doubt  regarded  as  a  complete  and  satis- 
fying success.  Dorothea  had  invited  a  lady 
to  take  tea  with  her  that  day.  1  heard 
the  sound  of  laughter,  and,  being  near  the 
nursery,  I  looked  in  to  see  what  was  the 
joke.  Smith  was  worrying  a  doll.  I  have 
rarely  seen  a  more  worried-looking  doll.  Its 
head  was  off,  and  its  sawdust  strewed  the 
floor.  Both  the  children  were  crowing  with 
delight ;  Dorothea,  in  particular,  was  in  an 
ecstasy  of  amusement. 

"  Whose  doll  is  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  Eva's,"  answered  Dorothea,  between  her 
peals  of  laughter. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  is  n't,"  explained  Eva,  in  a 
tone  of  sweet  content ;  "  here  's  my  doll." 
She  had  been  sitting  on  it,  and  now  drew  it 
forth,  warm  but  whole.  "That's  Dorry's 
doll." 

The  change  from  joy  to  grief  on  the  part 
of  Dorothea  was  distinctly  dramatic.  Even 
Smith,  accustomed  to  storm,  was  nonplussed 
at  the  suddenness  of  the  attack  upon  him. 

Dorothea's  sorrow  lasted  longer  than  I 
had  expected.  I  promised  her  another  doll. 
But  it  seemed  she  did  not  want  another ; 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   319 

that  was  the  only  doll  she  would  ever  care 
for  so  long  as  life  lasted ;  no  other  doll 
could  ever  take  its  place;  no  other  doll 
would  be  to  her  what  that  doll  had  been. 
These  little  people  are  so  absurd:  as  if  it 
could  matter  whether  you  loved  one  doll 
or  another,  when  all  are  so  much  alike ! 
They  have  curly  hair  and  pink-and-white 
complexions,  big  eyes  that  open  and  shut,  a 
little  red  mouth,  two  little  hands.  Yet 
these  foolish  little  people!  they  will  love 
one,  while  another  they  will  not  look  upon. 
I  find  the  best  plan  is  not  to  reason  with 
them,  but  to  sympathise.  Later  on  —  but 
not  too  soon — introduce  to  them  another 
doll.  They  will  not  care  for  it  at  first,  but 
in  time  they  will  come  to  take  an  interest  in 
it.  Of  course  it  cannot  make  them  forget 
the  first  doll;  no  doll  ever  born  in  Lowther 

Arcadia  could  be  as  that,  but  still It 

is  many  weeks  before  they  forget  entirely 
the  first  love. 

We  buried  Dolly  in  the  country  under 
the  yew-tree.  A  friend  of  mine  who  plays 
the  fiddle  came  down  on  purpose  to  assist. 
We  buried  her  in  the  hot  spring  sunshine, 
while  the  birds  from  shady  nooks  5ang  joy- 


3  20     On  Playing  of  Marches 

ously  of  life  and  love.  And  our  chief 
mourner  cried  real  tears,  just  for  all  the 
world  as  though  it  were  not  the  fate  of  dolls, 
sooner  or  later,  to  get  broken,  —  the  little 
fragile  things,  made  for  an  hour,  to  be 
dressed  and  kissed;  then,  paintless  and 
strip t,  to  be  thrown  aside  on  the  nursery- 
floor.  Poor  little  dolls !  I  wonder  do  they 
take  themselves  seriously,  not  knowing  the 
springs  that  stir  their  sawdust  bosoms  are 
but  clockwork,  not  seeing  the  wires  to  which 
they  dance.  Poor  little  marionettes !  do  they 
talk  together,  I  wonder,  when  the  lights  of 
the  booth  are  out. 

You,  little  sister  doll,  were  the  heroine. 
You  lived  in  the  whitewashed  cottage,  all 
honeysuckle  and  clematis  without,  —  ear- 
wiggy  and  damp  within,  maybe.  How  pretty 
you  always  looked  in  your  simple,  neatly- 
fitting  print  dress !  How  good  you  were  ' 
How  nobly  you  bore  your  poverty  !  Hov; 
patient  you  were  under  your  many  wrongs  ! 
You  never  harboured  an  evil  thought,  a 
revengeful  wish  —  never,  little  doll  ?  Were 
there  never  moments  when  you  longed  to 
play  the  wicked  woman's  part,  live  in  a  room 
with  many  doors,  beclad  in  furs  and  jewels, 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   321 

with  lovers  galore  at  your  feet  ?  In  those 
long  winter  evenings  ?  the  household  work 
is  done,  —  the  greasy  dishes  washed,  the 
floor  scrubbed ;  the  excellent  child  is  asleep 
in  the  corner ;  the  one-and-eleven-penny 
lamp  sheds  its  dismal  light  on  the  darned 
table-cloth  ;  you  sit,  busy  at  your  coarse 
sewing,    waiting  for    Hero  Dick,   knowing, 

guessing,  at  least,  where  he  is !     Yes, 

dear,  I  remember  your  fine  speeches,  when 
you  told  her,  in  stirring  language  the  gallery 
cheered  to  the  echo,  what  you  thought  of  her 
and  of  such  women  as  she  ;  when,  lifting  your 
hand  to  Heaven,  you  declared  you  were 
happier  in  your  attic,  working  your  fingers 
to  the  bone,  than  she  in  her  gilded  salon  — 
I  think  "  gilded  salon  "  was  the  term,  was  it 
not  ?  —  furnished  by  sin.  But  speaking  of 
yourself,  weak  little  sister  doll,  not  of  youi 
fine  speeches,  the  gallery  listening,  did  you 
not  in  your  secret  heart  envy  her  ?  Did 
you  never,  before  blowing  out  the  one  candle, 
stand  for  a  minute  in  front  of  the  cracked 
glass,  and  think  to  yourself  that  you,  too, 
tvould  look  well  in  low-cut  dresses  from 
Paris,  the  diamonds  flashing  on  your  white 
smooth  skin  ?     Did  you  never,  toiling  home 


3  2  2     On  Playing  of  Marches 

through  the  mud,  bearing  your  bundle  of 
needlework,  feel  bitter  with  the  wages  of 
virtue,  as  she  splashed  you,  passing  by  in 
her  carriage  ?  Alone,  over  your  cup  of 
weak  tea,  did  you  never  feel  tempted  to  pay 
the  price  for  champagne  suppers  and  gaiety 
and  admiration?  Ah,  yes,  it  is  easy  for 
folks  who  have  had  their  good  time  to  pre- 
pare copy-books  for  weary  little  ink-stained 
fingers  longing  for  play.  The  fine  maxims 
sound  such  cant  when  we  are  in  that  mood, 
do  they  not  ?  You,  too,  were  young  and 
handsome:  did  the  author  of  the  play  think 
you  were  never  hungry  for  the  good  things 
of  life  ?  Did  he  think  that  reading  tracts  to 
crotchety  old  women  was  joy  to  a  full- 
blooded  girl  in  her  twenties  ?  Why  should  she 
have  all  the  love  and  all  the  laughter  ?  How 
fortunate  that  the  villain,  the  Wicked  Baro- 
net, never  opened  the  cottage  door  at  that 
moment,  eh,  dear?  He  always  came  when 
you  were  strong,  when  you  felt  that  you 
could  denounce  him,  and  scorn  his  tempta- 
tions. Would  that  the  villain  came  to  all  of 
us  at  such  time  ;  then  we  would  all,  perhaps, 
be  heroes  and  heroines. 

Ah,  well,  it  was  only  a  play :  it  is  over 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   323 

now.  You  and  I,  little  tired  dolls,  lying 
here  side  by  side,  waiting  to  know  our  next 
part,  we  can  look  back  and  laugh.  Where 
is  she,  this  wicked  dolly,  that  made  such  a 
stir  on  our  tiny  stage  ?  Ah,  here  you  are. 
Madam  ;  I  thought  you  could  not  be  far ; 
they  have  thrown  us  all  into  this  corner  to- 
gether. But  how  changed  you  are,  Dolly, 
your  paint  rubbed  off,  your  golden  hair  worn 
to  a  wisp  !  No  wonder ;  it  was  a  trying  part 
you  had  to  play.  How  tired  you  must  have 
grown  of  the  glare  and  the  glitter  !  And 
even  hope  was  denied  you.  The  peace  you 
so  longed  for  you  knew  you  had  lost  the 
power  to  enjoy.  Like  the  girl  bewitched  in 
the  fairy  tale,  you  knew  you  must  dance  ever 
faster  and  faster,  with  limbs  growing  palsied, 
with  face  growing  ashen  and  hair  growing 
grey,  till  Death  should  come  to  release  you  ; 
and  your  only  prayer  was  he  might  come  ere 
your  dancing  grew  comic. 

Like  the  smell  of  the  roses  to  Nancy, 
hawking  them  through  the  hot  streets,  must 
the  stifling  atmosphere  of  love  have  been  to 
you.  The  song  of  passion,  how  monotonous 
in  your  ears,  sung  now  by  the  young  and 
now  by  the  old ;  now  shouted,  now  whined. 


324     On  Playing  of  Marches 

now  shrieked ;  but  ever  the  one  strident 
tune.  Do  you  remember  when  first  you 
heard  it  ?  You  dreamt  it  the  morning  hymn 
of  Heaven.  You  came  to  think  it  the  dance- 
music  of  Hell,  ground  out  of  a  cracked 
hurdy-gurdy,  lent  out  by  the  Devil  on  hire. 

An  evil  race  we  must  have  seemed  to  you, 
Dolly  Faustine,  as  to  some  Old  Bailey  lawyer. 
You  saw  but  one  side  of  us.  You  lived  in 
a  world  upside  down,  where  the  leaves  and 
the  blossoms  were  hidden,  and  only  the  roots 
saw  your  day.  You  imagined  the  worm- 
beslimed  fibres  the  plant,  and  all  things 
beautiful  you  deemed  cant.  Chivalry,  love, 
honour  !  how  you  laughed  at  the  lying  words ! 
You  knew  the  truth  —  as  you  thought :  aye, 
half  the  truth.  We  were  swine  while  your 
spell  was  upon  us.  Daughter  of  Circe,  and 
you,  not  knowing  your  island  secret,  deemed 
it  our  natural  shape. 

No  wonder,  Dolly,  your  battered  waxen 
face  is  stamped  with  an  angry  sneer.  The 
Hero,  who  eventually  came  into  his  estates 
amid  the  plaudits  of  the  Pit,  while  you  were 
left  to  die  in  the  streets,  you  remembered, 
but  the  house  had  forgotten  those  earlier 
scenes  in  always  wicked  Paris.     The  good 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   325 

friend  of  the  family,  the  breezy  man  of  the 
world,  the  Deus  ex  Machina  of  the  play,  who 
was  so  good  to  everybody,  whom  everybody 
loved!  aye,  ^oa  loved  him  once  —  but  that 
was  in  the  Prologue.  In  the  Play  proper, 
he  was  respectable.  (How  you  loathed  that 
word,  that  meant  to  you  all  you  vainly 
longed  for !)  To  him  the  Prologue  was  a 
period  past  and  dead ;  a  memory,  giving 
flavour  to  his  life.  To  you,  it  was  the  First 
Act  of  the  Play,  shaping  all  the  others. 
His  sins  the  house  had  forgotten  ;  at  yours, 
they  held  up  their  hands  in  horror.  No 
wonder  the  sneer  lies  on  your  waxen  lips. 

Never  mind,  Dolly;  it  was  a  stupid  house. 
Next  time,  perhaps,  you  will  play  a  better 
part;  and  then  they  will  cheer,  instead  of 
hissing  you.  You  were  wasted,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think,  on  modern  comedy.  You 
should  have  been  cast  for  the  heroine  of 
some  old-world  tragedy.  The  strength  of 
character,  the  courage,  the  power  of  self- 
forgetful  ness,  the  enthusiasm,  were  yours  :  it 
was  the  part  that  was  lacking.  You  might 
have  worn  the  mantle  of  a  Judith,  a  Boadi- 
cea,  or  a  Jeanne  d'Arc,  had  such  plays  been 


326     On  Playing  of  Marches 

popular  in  your  time.  Perhaps  they,  had 
they  played  in  your  day,  might  have  had  to 
be  content  with  such  a  part  as  yours.  They 
could  not  have  played  the  meek  heroine, 
and  what  else  would  there  have  been  for 
them  in  modern  drama?  Catherine  of 
Russia !  had  she  been  a  waiter's  daughter  in 
the  days  of  the  Second  Empire,  should  we 
have  called  her  Great?  The  Magdalene! 
had  her  lodging  in  those  days  been  in  some 
bye-street  of  Rome  instead  of  in  Jerusa- 
lem, should  we  mention  her  name  in  our 
churches  ? 

You  were  necessary,  you  see,  Dolly,  to 
the  piece.  We  cannot  all  play  heroes  and 
heroines.  There  must  be  wicked  people  in 
the  play,  or  it  would  not  interest.  Think 
of  it,  Dolly,  a  play  where  all  the  women 
were  virtuous,  all  the  men  honest!  We 
might  close  the  booth ;  the  world  would  be 
as  dull  as  an  oyster-bed.  Without  you 
wicked  folk  there  would  be  no  good.  How 
should  we  have  known  and  honoured  the 
heroine's  worth,  but  by  contrast  with  your 
worthlessness  ?  Where  would  have  been 
her  fine  speeches,  but  for  you  to  listen  to 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes  327 

them  ?  Where  lay  the  hero's  strength,  but 
in  resisting  temptation  of  you  ?  Had  not 
you  and  the  Wicked  Baronet  between  you 
robbed  him  of  his  estates,  falsely  accused  him 
of  crime,  he  would  have  lived  to  the  end  of 
the  play  an  idle,  unheroic,  incomplete  exist- 
ence. You  brought  him  down  to  poverty  ; 
you  made  him  earn  his  own  bread,  —  a  most 
excellent  thing  for  him ;  gave  him  the  op- 
portunity to  play  the  man.  But  for  your 
conduct  in  the  Prologue,  of  what  value 
would  have  been  that  fine  scene  at  the  end 
of  the  Third  Act,  that  stirred  the  house  to 
tears  and  laughter.  You  and  your  accom- 
plice, the  Wicked  Baronet,  made  the  play 
possible.  How  would  Pit  and  Gallery  have 
known  they  were  virtuous,  but  for  the  indig- 
nation that  came  to  them,  watching  your 
misdeeds  ?  Pity,  sympathy,  excitement,  all 
that  goes  to  the  making  of  a  play,  you  were 
necessary  for.  It  was  ungrateful  of  the 
house  to  hiss  you. 

And  you,  Mr.  Merryman,  the  painted 
grin  worn  from  your  pale  lips,  you  too  were 
dissatisfied,  if  I  remember  rightly,  with  your 
part.     You  wanted  to  make  the  people  cry. 


328     On  Playing  of  Marches 

not  laugh.  Was  it  a  higher  ambition  ?  The 
poor  tired  people  !  so  much  happens  outside 
the  booth  to  make  them  weep,  is  it  not  good 
sport  to  make  them  merry  for  a  while?  Do 
you  remember  that  old  soul  in  the  front  row 
of  the  Pit?  How  she  laughed  when  you 
sat  down  on  the  pie !  I  thought  she  would 
have  to  be  carried  out.  I  heard  her  talking 
to  her  companion  as  they  passed  the  stage- 
door  on  their  way  home.  "  I  have  not 
laughed,  my  dear,  till  to-night,"  she  was  say- 
ing, the  good,  gay  tears  still  in  her  eyes,  "  since 
the  day  poor  Sally  died."  Was  not  that 
alone  worth  the  old  stale  tricks  you  so  hated  ? 
Aye,  they  were  commonplace  and  conven- 
tional, those  antics  of  yours  that  made  us 
laugh ;  are  not  the  antics  that  make  us  weep 
commonplace  and  conventional  also  ?  Are 
not  all  the  plays,  played  since  the  booth  was 
opened,  but  of  one  pattern,  the  plot  old- 
fashioned  now,  the  scenes  now  commonplace  ? 
Hero,  villain,  cynic,  —  are  their  parts  so  much 
the  fresher  ?  The  love  duets,  are  they  so  very 
new?  The  death-bed  scenes,  would  you 
call  them  ^^commonplace  ?  Hate  and 
'Anger  and  Wrong,  —  are  their  voicei;  new 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   329 

to  the  booth  ?  What  are  you  waitnig  for, 
people  ?  a  play  with  a  plot  that  is  novel,  with 
characters  that  have  never  strutted  before  ? 
It  will  be  ready  for  you,  perhaps,  when  you 
are  ready  for  i:,  with  new  tears  and  new 
laughter. 

You,  Mr.  Merryman,  were  the  true  phi- 
losopher. You  saved  us  from  forgetting 
the  reality  when  the  friction  grew  somewhat 
strenuous.  How  we  all  applauded  your  gag 
in  answer  to  the  hero,  when,  bewailing  his 
sad  fate,  he  demanded  of  heaven  how  much 
longer  he  was  to  suffer  evil  fortune.  "  Well, 
there  cannot  be  much  more  of  it  in  store  for 
you,"  you  answered  him  ;  "  it 's  nearly,  nine 
o'clock  already,  and  the  show  closes  at  ten." 
And,  true  to  your  prophecy,  the  curtain  fell 
at  the  time  appointed,  and  his  troubles  were 
of  the  past.  You  showed  us  the  truth  behind 
the  mask.  When  pompous  Lord  Shallow, 
in  ermine  and  wig,  went  to  take  his  seat 
amid  the  fawning  crowd,  you  pulled  the 
chair  from  under  him,  and  down  he  sat 
plump  on  the  floor.  His  robe  flew  open  ; 
his  wig  flew  off.  No  longer  he  awed  us. 
His  aped  dignity  fell  from  him ;  we  saw  him 


330     On  Playing  of  Marches 

a  stupid-eyed,  bald  little  man  ;  he  imposed 
no  longer  upon  us.  It  is  your  fool  who  is 
the  only  true  wise  man. 

Yours  was  the  best  part  in  the  play, 
Brother  Merryman,  had  you  and  the  audi- 
ence but  known  it.  But  you  dreamt  of  a 
showier  part,  where  you  loved  and  fought. 
I  have  heard  you  now  and  again,  when  you 
did  not  know  I  was  near,  shouting  with 
sword  in  hand  before  your  looking-glass. 
You  had  thrown  your  motley  aside  to  don  a 
dingy  red  coat;  you  were  the  hero  of  the 
play  ;  you  performed  the  gallant  deeds  ;  you 
made  the  noble  speeches.  I  wonder  what 
the  play  would  be  like,  were  we  all  to  write 
our  own  parts.  There  would  be  no  clowns, 
no  singing  chambermaids.  We  would  all 
be  playing  lead  in  the  centre  of  the  stage, 
with  the  lime-light  exclusively  devoted  to 
ourselves.     Would  it  not  be  so  ? 

What  grand  acting  parts  they  are,  these 
characters  we  write  for  ourselves  alone  in 
our  dressing-rooms.  We  are  always  brave 
and  noble,  —  wicked  sometimes,  but  if  so,  in 
a  great,  high-minded  way ;  never  in  a  mean 
or  little  way.     What  wondrous  deeds  we  do. 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes   331 

while  the  house  looks  on  and  marvels  !  Now 
we  are  soldiers,  leading  armies  to  victory. 
What  if  we  die  1  it  is  in  the  hour  of  triumph, 
and  a  nation  is  left  to  mourn.  Not  in  some 
forgotten  skirmish  do  we  ever  fall;  not  for 
some  "  affair  of  outposts  "  do  we  give  our 
blood,  our  very  name  unmentioned  in  the  de- 
spatches home.  Now  we  are  passionate  lovers, 
well  losing  a  world  for  love,  —  a  very  different 
thing  to  being  a  laughter-provoking  co-re- 
spondent in  a  sordid  divorce  case. 

And  the  house  is  always  crowded  when 
we  play.  Our  fine  speeches  always  fall  on 
sympathetic  ears ;  our  brave  deeds  are  noted 
and  applauded.  It  is  so  different  in  the 
real  performance.  So  often  we  play  our 
parts  to  empty  benches,  or  if  a  thin  house 
be  present,  they  misunderstand,  and  laugh 
at  the  pathetic  passages.  And  when  our 
finest  opportunity  comes,  the  royal  box,  in 
which  he  or  she  should  be  present  to  watch 
us,  is  vacant. 

Poor  little  dolls  !  how  seriously  we  take 
ourselves,  not  knowing  the  springs  that  stir 
our  bosoms  are  but  clockwork,  net  seeing  the 
wires  to  which  we  dance!     Poor  little  mario- 


33  2     On  Playing  of  Marches 

nettes !  shall  we  talk  together,  I  wonder,  when 
the  lights  of  the  booth  are  out  ? 

We  are  little  wax  dollies  with  hearts.  We 
are  little  tin  soldiers  with  souls.  Oh,  King 
of  many  toys,  are  you  merely  playing  with 
us?  Is  it  only  clockwork  within  us,  this 
thing  that  throbs  and  aches?  Have  you 
wound  us  up  but  to  let  us  run  down  ? 
Will  you  wind  us  again  to-morrow,  or  leave 
us  here  to  rust?  Is  it  only  clockwork  to 
which  we  respond  and  quiver  ?  Now  we 
laugh,  now  we  cry,  now  we  dance  ;  our  little 
arms  go  out  to  clasp  one  another,  our  httle 
lips  kiss,  then  say  good-bye.  We  strive,  and 
we  strain,  and  we  struggle.  We  reach  now 
for  gold,  now  for  laurel.  We  call  it  desire 
and  ambition  :  are  they  only  wires  that  you 
play  ?  Will  you  throw  the  clockwork  aside, 
or  use  it  again,  O  Master? 

The  lights  of  the  booth  grow  dim.  The 
springs  are  broken  that  kept  our  eyes  awake, 
The  wire  that  held  us  erect  is  snapped,  and 
helpless  we  fall  in  a  heap  on  the  stage.  Oh, 
brother  and  sister  dollies  that  v/e  played  be- 
side, where  are  you  ?  Why  is  it  so  dark  and 
silent?     Why   are  we  being  put  into   this 


at  Funerals  of  Marionettes  333 

black  box  ?  And  hark  !  the  little  doll  orches' 
tra  —  how  far  away  the  music  sounds  !  — 
what  is  it  they  are  playing  ?  — 


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